


For Honor

by Aegrota



Category: Predator Original Series (1987-1990), Predators (2010), The Predator (2018)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship, Culture Shock, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hopefully A Bit Of Humor, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Language Barrier, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pseudoscience, Scenting, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Difference, Soulmates, Yautja culture, possibly canon-divergent, probably slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24329353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegrota/pseuds/Aegrota
Summary: Mate. Mate. Mate. Every beat of his heart repeated this word over and over again, something that never happened to him before and the euphoria almost made him reveal himself when her gaze unmistakably flew up and straight to him.She couldn’t have heard, seen, or smelled him.Yet she looked straight at him.That must mean something, right? Perhaps oomans recognized soul mates this way?
Relationships: Yautja (Predator)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 314





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! 
> 
> I am not exactly new to Predator, but I am new to the Predator fandom, I have only recently started reading fic for it, and let me tell you, I was blown away by how many beautiful, super sweet fics I've found! I am especially happy to find so many fics with super explicit consent here (my biggest kink lol) 
> 
> This is the first fic I am writing for the fandom, please excuse any errors and any possible (it's very likely) inaccuracies. I tried and will try to keep everything (like biology and culture) logical and close, if not the same, to either canon or what seems like widely accepted fanon, although, if I can't find a certain tidbit handled anywhere, I will have to make up my own and tbh, I'm nervous, so please go easy on me, I've never written extraterrestrials before. 
> 
> This will also have a happy ending, I typically only write those, along with a lot of fluff and hopefully a sweet romance. And smut. I love writing smut, okay? :D 
> 
> ********  
> POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: briefly mentioned dissatisfaction with one's own body (weight), briefly mentioned contemplation of suicide (due to extreme fear) 
> 
> I will keep including warnings for things that only appear in passing like this, if something is just mentioned or referenced, but it is a possible trigger, it will be written like this in the author's notes before each chapter.   
> Things that are major themes will be in the tags.   
> Feel free to point out to me if I've forgotten some tags and I really hope you enjoy this fic, positive feedback is what keeps me motivated! ^_^ 
> 
> P.S.: Just as I was editing this chapter before posting, I was told that Zakaar apparently means "penis" in Malay. So, be wary of using name generators! I'm leaving it in because tbh, I like the spelling and the pronunciation too much and he obviously wasn't named by Malaysian parents.

Nora pulls the zipper on her hoodie higher, even though it’s already almost entirely up, and throws her hood over her hair, damp with sweat, walking home briskly.    
Her hands are firmly planted in her pockets and she shivers. The wind is colder than she anticipated and she had just finished training. She keeps telling herself that one of these days, she will muster enough courage to use the showers at the club, but the thought of being naked around so many people is mortifying.    
  
Maybe when she finally loses enough weight.   
  
Most people have a good reason for taking up martial arts. Some need to know self-defense, some need it for their jobs, some want to get in touch with their spirituality through the meditative aspects… Nora is just disgusted with herself for being a couch potato.    
She used to play handball for years back in school, she even deluded herself that she could go pro. But then the car accident happened and by the time she recovered, that ship had sailed.    
  
Then she just gave up. She threw herself into her studies, found a good job, tried to have a decent social life, but any desire for exercise just left her. And then, due to the sedentary lifestyle and her night-owl shifts fueled with Monster and chips, the weight slowly piled on.    
  
Deciding to start doing kung fu wasn’t even some profound moment. She was just given a flyer at the mall and decided to finally do something about her appearance and the fact that she gets winded climbing two flights of stairs these days.    
All in all, she enjoyed it. It was interesting, way better than mindless reps at a gym, and the people she practiced with were interesting, she felt like she was making new friends, a different kind than what was probably common, the ones you bond with over challenges.    
  
And it was nice knowing you can accomplish something, a feeling she got every time she successfully employed a technique.    
However, the weight loss process was a long one. She already lost a fair amount, having been training for about 9 months, but there was still a lot of toning to be done and she knew she’d have to go to the gym eventually to get that ideal body she craved.    
  
She sighs, trembling at another gust of wind as she walks even faster. It’s a little after 10 p.m. and even though it is Spring, the evenings are still fairly cold. Nora never liked cold weather. She psychs herself up thinking about a scalding shower she’ll take once she’s home. She might even make herself some tea before she goes to bed.    
Jasmine? Or maybe chamomile, or…    
  
Her gaze shoots up from the pavement as she instinctively slows down. Something’s not right.    
She can’t quite place her finger on it so she eyes her surroundings. This area is not unfamiliar to her, she walks this route nearly every day, but she doesn’t think the street is usually this quiet.    
  
Two street lamps ahead are not working and even though that belated realization could explain why she initially felt odd, she still can’t shake the feeling of dread climbing up her spine.    
  
It’s dark, quiet, and aside from the wind, the street looks frozen in time.    
She feels like somebody's watching her, and before she can even think, she looks toward the roof of a nearby building. It’s an old beer brewery, currently being renovated, she heard it will be turned into a hip nightclub.    
  
The moon is full and clouds are moving quickly as she squints at the clearly empty roof, devoid of even a single bird. There usually are birds galore in this neighborhood.    
She can’t stop staring, like, if she looks long enough, something will materialize. She scolds herself inwardly. How scary would it be if that happened? If she blinked and suddenly, something, or someone,  _ was  _ up there?    
  
The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She tries to tell herself it’s just her tired, paranoid mind playing tricks on her, but she could have sworn the air… shifted up there. Like… like a tiny glimmer of an outline and then it was gone and she rubs her eyes. Gone. Of course. She’s just being stupid.    
  
Shuddering again, and unsure whether it’s from the cold or the creepiness, she keeps walking. The sooner she got back to her warm, well-lit apartment, the better. Nora is just about to round a corner when she’s grabbed from the shadows and a hand is pressed over her mouth:    
  
“Now, be a good girl and you might not get hurt, hm?”    
  
Hot, moist breath fans over her ear, and with another shudder, Nora stops thinking. She lets the assailant drag her a little further back into the passage and gets to see two more figures before she subconsciously realizes that this is her only chance.    
She plants her elbow in his ribs, bending in the knees and spreading her arms, like a bottle opener, to get out of his grip and try to flank him, but not before the back of her fist connects with his nose.    
  
Nora never hit anyone for real. Pain shoots up through her hand and forearm and the sound is disgusting. No matter how strong a man, he can never strengthen his nose. The pained growl he lets out and his surprise let her get behind him just in time for him to be her unwilling human shield as she grabs him, her body remembering the techniques taught to her and she suppresses her desire to scream as she hears him take a punch from his buddy that was meant for her as she pushes him.    
  
That was her mistake. She had to pry her back off the wall that gave her protection. The third man gets behind her and lifts her, a hand gripping her throat:   
  
“You little bi…”    
_   
_ _   
_ She hears something that sounds suspiciously like a blade and the rest of that sentence is a gargle and Nora has never been colder in her life as she realizes he’s been stabbed. His hold slackens and they both crumple to the ground and it is only the three red dots she sees on the forehead of one of the other two men that prevent her knees from giving in immediately. What are those…   
  
Her question is answered when the man receives a… laser blast right between his eyes and she instinctively closes hers, mind screeching to a halt before going back to running a thousand miles per second and back to halt.    
  
Three men. Attacking her. Seemingly unarmed.    
  
The third man, if her ears can be relied upon, receives a thrown weapon in his flesh, she can clearly hear it whistling through the air before finding its mark. It causes him to gargle just like the first, and Nora tries to not imagine a bladed disc flying into his neck.    
  
Everything in her mind is screaming to run, to hide, to do everything she can to not suffer the fate of these three, but she knows it’s already too late for that. Maybe she’s already dead and unaware of it. She doesn’t even feel when her knees hit the concrete. The world seems to spin in slow motion and she cannot get enough oxygen. Everything is muffled and she feels sick.   
  
She does feel a huge hand hooking under her armpit and yanking her up and she wheezes. The air smells of blood, seared flesh that makes her want to vomit knowing it is human, and… honey?    
  
The sheer surprise at that makes her look up and even though her vision is blurred with tears that she didn’t even realize were spilling, she knows that she can’t see anyone in front of her.   
  
She can hear breathing.    
She can feel the smell. Metal, honey, and indescribable… musk?    
  
Then she finally sees a faint glimmer. A humanoid outline. The same as the one on the roof.    
  
And then the creature turns visible.   
  
It… and Nora feels “it” is the best word, is… not of this world.    
  
It is gigantic, easily standing over 7 feet, maybe even nearly 8 of pure muscle, skin looking almost reptilian, golden and green. It’s wearing several pieces of armor that look at the same time ancient and futuristic, although most of its torso is not armored. It is, however, wearing a helmet and her mind, overridden from panic to mindless humor, thinks it looks like an outlandish motorcycle helmet, complete with rubbery dreadlocks adorned with beads.    
  
Maybe this is just a freakishly large man in a costume?   
A man who has a laser gun on his shoulder and two still bloody claw blades in his hand.    
  
She half-expects to get three red dots on her own forehead and gasps when the creature retracts its (his?) claw blades.    
And then she notices it has some sort of a gauntlet with a screen on its left arm. It fiddles with it and several voices, cut and pieced together, come sounding out from it, like audio snippets that someone is trying to force into a sentence, the aural equivalent of cut out magazine letters in anonymous mail:    
  
“Are you okay?!” The terrified, strained whimper of that recording sends a chill down her spine before another recording starts:    
  
“Stay quiet!” it is a female voice, a harsh whisper, followed by more snippets:    
  
“No. Fear. Safe. Everything! Okay! Come. With me.”    
  
Nora leans against the cold brick wall, nearly sliding down it, if not for the huge hand to reach out and hold her upright. It doesn’t even hurt. Maybe it does but she’s too shocked to feel it. She absent-mindedly looks at the hand. That is not a glove. Clawed. Terrifying. Monstrous.    
  
She’s being held by a monster. A murderous monster. That for some reason still hasn’t killed her. Maybe. Her head pulses in pain.   
  
“Are you… an alien?”    
  
Her voice comes out ragged and cracky and sounds foreign even to her. She doesn’t know why she’s not more afraid or why this is the question she is asking.    
Another voice clip, this one heavily accented, something Slavic as the creature nods:   
  
“Predator.”    
  
And then, like she’s a ragdoll, this predator slings her over his shoulder and jumps. High.    
Nora is too petrified to even struggle. It’s futile. This is it. This is how she meets her end. Slain by an alien monster. She never even believed that aliens existed!    
The smell of honey grows ever stronger as the creature deftly jumps and climbs over fire escapes and construction structures lined against the building and she grows dizzy. She just wants to sleep.    
  
She’s half-aware that they’re… flying? No. He’s still leaping… roof to fucking roof. The rubbery dreadlocks (is that his hair?) are bobbing about along with her own stomach and she feels like she could vomit but her heart in her throat is blocking anything.    
  
Through the sound of his running, that, oddly, is much quieter than she would have anticipated from someone his size, she feels, more than hears… purring? He’s vibrating like an oversized cat. Definitely purring.    
  
She probably passes out, because the next thing she knows, the creature is setting her down, cloaking itself again.    
They’re in front of her apartment and another winded, terrified recording sounds from him:   
  
“I’ll come back for you. I promise. Just wait here. Wait for me.”    
  
And then she feels the graze of claws through her hair, faintly against her skull, the purring and the intoxicating honey smell growing stronger before he’s gone. Just like that.    
  
Nora falls to the ground.    
  


* * *

  
  
One hardly ever forgets the stories their bearer tells them when they’re a pup.    
And Zakaar’s bearer is full of stories.    
  
She told him about all the planets she’s visited and all the creatures she met there. His bearer was not a hunter. Her role in the clanship was collecting information and conducting research based on it, with the goal of advancing the Yautja technology and knowledge.    
  
Her mandibles clicking in mirth, she once told him that oomans have a similar occupation, although on a much narrower and more primitive scale, called anthropologist:   
  
“They don’t really look at the big picture, my pup. They’re too weak and primitive to cover any significant distance, and it’s all for the better, seeing how they are unable to even understand their own domain and species. Imagine being unaware that any species other than Yautja exists. Any knowledge and upper hand you might obtain will then be turned against your own because the survival of the fittest is the ultimate way of life. And thinking your microcosm is the only thing to exist… you make do with what you have. So swear on your honor, to never stop looking at the bigger picture.”    
  
Zakaar soon realized that, no matter how many flaws his bearer pointed out in oomans, they were the species she was most interested in studying. Her fascination with the soft meats had her visit Earth numerous times, bringing items that little Zakaar always stared at like they were the most puzzling in the universe.    
  
He was happy one time, while he was still a pup before he could even be considered an Unbloodied when he recognized something:   
  
“You brought ooman jewelry?”    
  
His bearer’s chuckle morphed into full-on laughter as he tried (and succeeded!) to fit the small golden band around his dreadlock:   
  
“Take that off, pup, it’s not what it’s for. Oomans wear these on their fingers. Observe.”    
  
She lifted the second band, slightly larger than the first, but otherwise the same. They were plain and thin, the metal seemingly malleable and warm:   
  
“These bands are worn on the fourth ooman finger, aptly named… ring finger. Sometimes oomans are straight to the point. Not all oomans wear them and I initially thought it was because these bands are hard to obtain for some reason, perhaps rare, expensive, or just given to represent a rank that not all oomans achieve. I was partially right. These bands are worn by life mates. The smaller one is female.”    
  
Zakaar stared at his bearer, his golden eyes wide with curiosity:   
  
“Oomans do not mark?”    
  
Another thrill of laughter from his bearer:   
  
“What can they mark with those useless blunt things they call teeth? No, they wear these ornaments instead when they commit to one another.”   
  
Zakaar was a clever pup, his mandibles clicking in thought:   
  
“So, not all oomans wear these, but many do?”    
  
“ _ Sei-i _ , a great number of them do. It is not surprising. When not at war, oomans survive in greater numbers than us, their  _ chiva _ are laughable, if they even exist. They have fewer pups, even the males, and their females are not nearly as capable or independent as ours. So, the sire and the bearer typically form a lifelong, or at least longterm union to raise pups. You already know how short their life is. They can only have pups when young, I presume this is a window of maybe 30 revolutions of Blue Planet around their system’s sun. That is nearly your age now. And they might live to be around 70, or 80.”    
  
Zakaar’s eyes went large and his bearer continued:   
  
“If you think adult oomans are  _ pyode,  _ their pups are doubly so. Perhaps to justify this biological need they all have for protection and dependence, oomans have invented the most curious concept. They speak of soul mates.”    
  
“Is that the same as life mates?”   
  
“Possibly, but, weakness always looks for excuses. Ooman pheromones are weak, their sense of smell even more pathetic. They cannot know whether a mate is truly compatible. They claim they do. They claim they can know another’s essence, spirit, soul and that is how they match. Maybe not all, but many. I would be disappointed if at least some of them were not more pragmatic than that and picked mates for genetics, strength, or status.”    
  
Zakaar’s mandibles clenched in thought. He tried to imagine never being able to know whether a mate is truly meant to bear his pups. Oomans seemed to place faith in this concept rather than be sure of it:   
  
“So, are these unions productive?”    
  
His bearer’s eyes glinted with pride, her pup was asking such smart questions:   
  
“I would have to conduct longer, more detailed research to answer your question, pup. Oomans, even if they’re still primitive, are not hopeless mentally. Maybe it really is the most viable way to do things for them and maybe it does work for them. Think of it this way, most Yautja take on life mates when their star is on the decline, when the flame of their life force is slowly dying down from an inferno to a flicker. These Yautja have lived a full life and their last days are to be peaceful, their possibly last pups brought up by bearer and sire together because it is necessary to unify fronts when you’re old and frailer than before. Oomans are simply always frail.”    
  
“But… if they can never be sure of success, yet they still try, is that not strength?”    
  
His bearer shook her head good-naturedly, chuckling:   
  
“Perhaps. That same trait sometimes helps an ooman defeat a Yautja. They can be formidable, even if it happens rarely. A lesson to be learned here is that you should never underestimate any prey, no matter how weak they seem.”    
  
Zakaar realized why his bearer is so fascinated by oomans that day. They were so weak, so destined to fail according to everything he knew about them, and yet they lived on, they sometimes even won.    
  
As cycles went by, he kept thinking about this conversation with his bearer, he kept thinking about soul mates and faith and hope. He never admitted it to anyone, but it sounded at the same time terrifying and beautiful. He almost envied oomans, because he was robbed of the gut feeling when it came to this, he would always just know when a female is compatible, he would only need to inhale and it would be done.    
  
  
  
Many cycles later, Zakaar was now a Bloodied Yautja, even if he was unusually young for one. Females started paying him mind. He was soon to sire his first pups. Some females smelled great. Some didn’t. He listened to his friends discuss this over jugs of  _ cn’tlip _ and wondered why no smell, no matter how pleasant it was, ever caused him to go as  _ hulij-bpe _ and eager as his friends were. Perhaps it just wasn’t time yet?    
  
And then it happened.    
He was on Earth, in a city known for plenty of prey, called D’thro-iht. He was tracking a group of three male oomans that seemed promising when the wind brought him a whiff of the most delicious scent he’s ever felt, even tarnished by discomfort and unease.    
  
It smelled of sweet fruit nectar and salt at the same time (he knew ooman skin emitted salty fluids, even their blood was salty, but fluids of strain, clear as water and flowing from skin or eyes was also salty), of firewood, of warmth… of home.   
His own blood stirred and sang as he silently hopped roof to roof, her heat signature reading clear as day on his interface.    
He knew then and there, with more certainty than he ever knew anything in his life, that he has to have her.    
  
Mate. Mate. Mate. Every beat of his heart repeated this word over and over again, something that never happened to him before, and the euphoria almost made him reveal himself when her gaze unmistakably flew up and straight to him.    
  
She couldn’t have heard, seen, or smelled him.    
Yet she looked straight at him.    
That must mean something, right? Perhaps oomans recognized soul mates this way?   
Zakaar shivered, stirring his cloaking field and her heat signature spiked slightly.    
  
And then the three oomans that were to be prey attacked her. If their fate had not already been sealed, that would have done it.    
However, Zakaar wanted to see his mate’s capabilities.    
  
She was small, he could see, small and too soft for anyone to consider worthy prey. But he watched how she moved. She knew ooman weak points and she knew how to exploit them but it was rudimentary at best. A dull, untempered blade. His little blade. She was quick on her feet and Zakaar’s imagination was already running wild with fantasies of how good of a hunter she could become with his guidance.    
She was brave to try and defeat three oomans so much bigger and stronger than her. Zakaar was certain that if there were only two, his little blade would have won, which was an impressive feat for an ooman female.    
  
But the third then laid his paws on her and Zakaar wasn’t thinking anymore.    
In retrospect, the  _ sivk'va-tai _ was excessive, but Zakaar would have blown up this entire planet if his mate was in danger.    
  
He is truly a  _ s’yuit-de _ because he completely forgot that, soul mates or not, oomans find Yautja appearance terrifying, even with their masks on. His mate went limp, her expression slacking in a way that told him that perhaps she was in shock, her eyes and mouth both went wide and… stuck. Empty?    
  
Or maybe it wasn’t his appearance. Most oomans who led average ooman lives were scared of killing, or death in any form, even their own one, even the one of old age. Why they were scared of something so natural, Zakaar would possibly never understand. 

  
Her smell soured with fear and exhaustion and Zakaar was happy for his collection of voice clips. He can reassure her that everything is fine, that he means no harm!    
  
“Are you… an alien?”    
  
His mandibles tremble reflexively. Her voice, even strained and weak, feels like the most beautiful melody and Zakaar wants nothing more than to grab her and claim her right then and there so nobody else can ever hope to approach her like this.    
  
No. That is a code violation. He needs to take her home. She still smells of terror and hopelessness, the latter the most repulsive to a Yautja. So he purrs for her and feels his chest swell when she falls asleep. He will be a good mate for her.    
  
He follows her scent through the city and it is the easiest possible scent to track, his entire body seems like it was trained to always follow that scent to where it was strongest, to her and her nest, to home. Their home. He scents her, hoping that will be enough for her to warm up to him and to be safe. No honorable Yautja will go after an ooman scented by another hunter. Stealing prey or creatures of interest was a grave offense. He doesn’t think there are currently others of his kind in D’thro-iht, but caution is wise.    
  
Perhaps he cannot feel her core, the place where oomans are probably the warmest, their scent the strongest, because he has no permission, but ooman scalps are also very warm and he knows, thanks to his bearer’s wisdom, that it is not offensive to touch an ooman’s head. With utmost care, he caresses her head and runs his fingers through her hair, mandibles clicking quietly behind his mask, purring stronger as he floods her with his scent, promising to come back for her.    
  
The Elders might refuse his plea to take an ooman as a life mate.    
In fact, they probably will.    
As he goes back to the alley to collect his trophies, Zakaar swears to prove himself, to kill countless  _ kiande amedha _ queens, until nothing can stand between him and his decisions.    


* * *

  
  
  
Nora doesn’t remember how she got into bed when she wakes up fully dressed. She even has her sneakers on, but thankfully, her feet are hanging off the bed as she lays sideways. Her neck and armpit hurt.    
  
And then she remembers.    
It can’t be true.    
It must have been a fever dream, she must have caught a cold, having gone out into the wind all sweaty and she…    
  
There’s blood on her hoodie. Not much, but it is clearly there, a splatter smeared across the back and it is not her own. She runs to the bathroom and grabs onto the sink after she throws the hoodie off like it is the most disgusting thing in the world.    
  
Those men were killed.    
A small voice in her mind tells her that those men would have definitely robbed and most likely raped her had they gotten the chance.    
  
She frantically checks herself. Aside from the red finger marks from where one of the men grabbed her neck and the dull ache in her armpit from the creature’s grip, she’s perfectly fine. She peels her clothes off, shivering. She feels that she reeks of now stale sweat but that is not the unnerving part. She also smells… weird.    
  
Sweet and musky, it’s not exactly a perfume but it almost reminds her of one.    
Her heart beating as fast as that of a rabbit, she tries to employ the breathing techniques taught to her at the club.    
  
The creature. Did her terrified mind play tricks on her? Was he really that huge and strong or was she seeing things?    
He killed those men, she couldn’t have imagined that. Yet, she’s alive and unharmed. She’s pretty certain she would have known if he tried to… touch her. She shudders.    
  
Was it even a he?    
She cannot know.   
The creature nodded when she asked if it was an alien.    
Since it appeared humanoid, she presumed it was a male based on the shape of its body. But really, aliens could have sexes entirely different from those of humans.    
  
Or maybe it was a she, a female who, for some reason, didn’t hurt another female? Or maybe it didn’t hurt her because she was… unfit?    
  
The creature “identified” itself as a predator. Hunter. Preying on humans?    
Hunters, even human ones, hunted specific prey. Her uncle only killed pheasants and rabbits. Some other people hunt deer and boars. Yet other ones hunt elephants or pangolins.    
She digresses.    
  
Why was she spared?    
Was she a pathetic rabbit to a hunter who only considered boars worthy prey?    
Because she couldn’t believe someone that strong and fast and well-armed could think she was formidable in any way.    
  
Then she remembers.    
It promised to come back for her. And it knew where she lived.    
  
She scrubs herself in the shower to the point of nearly breaking the skin. That smell will not go away. Even after several lathers of soap, shower gel, shampoo, and even the heavy-duty laundry soap, it is still there. Diminished, but still there.    
  
How does the creature know where she lives?   
Is it stalking her? Following her? Will she be killed soon?    
  
It can turn invisible.    
  
Her arms fly to cover her breasts and crotch, eyes scanning the bathroom. That annoying smell is on  _ her,  _ even if the creature is there, in her home, she would not know. She strains her eyes to try and make out that slight stir in the air when it shifts.    
  
She sees nothing. Hears nothing. Smells nothing but herself and when her skin is so raw that she can’t bear to touch it anymore, she comes to terms with the fact that she will have to accept the smell.    
  
She refuses to go out that day and every sound causes her to flinch and startle as she expects a blade or a laser in her any moment now. She has nowhere to hide, and hiding in something like a closet would just make sure she has nowhere to run. She possesses no weapons aside from kitchen knives and she is not that great at using those even for their intended purpose. For now, she avoids even passing next to a window, not even feeling stupid about crawling on the floor of her own apartment.   
  
The creature said… well, used a clip of a human saying it, that it will be back for her. The man from the clip sounded out of breath, but definitely not threatening, he sounded like he was saying that to someone he cared about. Not someone he wanted to kill.    
  
She cannot rely on that. It is a voice clip, just words reused, she cannot rely on the emotion or nuances there, the creature probably does want to kill her.    
  
But why not do it last night, then?   
Maybe it’s fun. Maybe it’s fun to torture her, to toy with her, and make her go mad with fear before killing her. It’s hard to imagine one would kill all animals in a herd except one.   
  
Oh god, does the creature eat humans? Does it want to eat her?    
Hunters hunt for food. sport, or money.    
  
So, if it would not eat her, it might want to… she feels sick again, thinking about people who display taxidermy or deer antlers or bear rugs as trophies. Or sell tusks or scales or skin on the black market.    
  
She then thinks of bounty hunters or mercenaries in movies.    
It’s stupid to even think about that, it’s delusional, but maybe this alien hunts… bad people? Those men certainly had horrible intentions.    
  
And she, as much as she wasn’t perfect, never broke the law or attacked anyone or did anything that would warrant death.    
If this creature could understand and communicate with her and use technology (and have opposable thumbs), it was clearly intelligent. Meaning it had to operate on some logic.    
  
Even if that logic was cruel and monstrous.    
  
It would be best if she escaped. Skipped town, hid somewhere, maybe on the West Coast, San Francisco is a nice city… but the countryside might be better, change her name, appearance, everything. And hide. Just hide and maybe this predator never finds her.    
  
That is a life of fear.    
She would spend all her remaining days looking over her shoulder.    
That is no life.    
Maybe she should then take the pleasure away from the creature. Just end her own life.    
Maybe…    
Maybe.    
She’s sure she would not be able to withstand being this afraid all the time.    
  


* * *

  
  
Zakaar is restless to have to leave Earth without his mate, however temporarily it may be. She might be in danger and he wouldn’t even know, she might do something reckless. Oomans are reckless when faced with surprises, he knows.    
  
He tries to rationalize. Seeing him must have been a shock for her. He’s stupid! She’s probably still afraid, she probably thinks that he means her harm. He curses his voice clip library. It is so limited!   
  
As he walks down the corridors of the clanship, intending to speak with the clan elites on board, he tries to not let his unrest show when he passes other Yautja. He can already imagine the rumors that would start if he, Zakaar, looked anything other than composed after leaving Earth.    
  
The ship captain, Bhu’tun, is one of the most revered clan members. He is an Elite that almost exclusively specializes in  _ kiande amedha.  _ With many honorable kills and many cycles under his belt, his leadership is never questioned.    
  
Possibly until today.   
  
“Speak, Zakaar.”    
  
He crosses his wrists behind his back, his dark red eyes studying the younger with interest. Zakaar does not often ask to speak to him officially and he thinks this must be something important, supported by the fact that his sharp gaze immediately picks up on the nervousness of his younger clan mate.    
  
“I wish to take on a life mate.” Zakaar’s voice does not waver and Bhu’tun tilts his head minutely:   
  
“Why? You are young. You never sired pups.”    
  
This is the difficult part:    
  
“Because her  _ dai-shui  _ calls to me and I want no other female.”    
  
Bhu’tun scoffs. Younglings! This is the consequence of allowing them to study all these other races in the depths they have. A Yautja should know what is relevant to hunt prey, not study its thoughts. Because when they do, they get all these silly ideas like committing to having only a small number of pups a single female could bear.    
  
“Mating with many females would ensure your bloodline survives. You can get a life mate when you’re old like me. Why waste the potential?”    
  
Zakaar seems to consider this for a moment, but he shakes his head slowly:    
  
“I require your permission for this and am ready to further prove my  _ yin-tekai  _ to obtain it. Assign a mission, and I will do it and return. Just how any pup I sire will, even if their number is small.”    
  
Bhu’tun’s eyes narrow:   
  
“Who is this female? Tell me her name.”    
  
“I do not know it. I met her two night cycles ago. In D’thro-iht, on the Blue Planet. She is an ooman.”    
  
Of all the reactions Zakaar expected, laughing almost to the point of wheezing was not one of them. Bhu’tun’s fit of laughter takes seemingly forever to subside as he places a hand on his stomach, finally catching his breath:   
  
“You pulled a good trick on me, young one! For an instant, I thought you were serious!”    
  
“I am.”    
  
All amusement disappears from Bhu’tun’s face in the blink of an eye as his features darken:   
  
“You intend to not only limit your progeny to pups born by one female, but you wish to further handicap them by having that female be an ooman?”    
  
His mandibles flare slightly in irritation and disgust:   
  
“That is so stupid it is cruel. You will be pupless and disgraced if you do this.”    
  
Zakaar clenches his fists to stop himself from matching Bhu’tun’s angry expression. Offending an Elite will not solve this situation:   
  
“And what if I won’t? What if my pups prove themselves to be just as skilled and strong as I am?”    
  
“Impossible with an ooman parent!”    
  
“Some of our hunters do not survive hunting oomans!”    
  
“Some do not.” Concedes Bhu’tun before tilting his chin up:    
  
“But many more do. Many, many more have trophy rooms full of oomans.”    
  
“Same as how many, many a Yautja-ooman hunter might die hunting, while some prevail.”    
  
Bhu’tun hisses at Zakaar:   
  
“You really wish to bring this upon your bloodline?”    
  
His tone is threatening and it takes Zakaar all the reminding that the older Yautja wishes him well that he can muster to not become disrespectful:    
  
“I am certain of my decision.”    
  
The captain waves his hand:    
  
“In that case, I will grant you permission. May I turn out to be wrong.”    
  
He pauses and approaches Zakaar:   
  
“You know the rules. Bring your female here, court her, and train her for the mating hunt. Just how you would a Yautja one. You are responsible for her and her knowing her place here. Should courting fail…”    
  
He doesn’t have to finish that sentence.    
An ooman who does not belong to a Yautja is Yautja prey. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, hello! ^_^   
> Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments, it means the world! I hope you like Chapter 2, the writing bug has bit me hard with this one and it was so much fun to write, I always feel like I need to practice describing more and relying less on the actual words used in the dialog, so writing this kind of a language-barrier conversation was good for me, I feel. 
> 
> When it comes to POV, I will be switching from Nora to Zakaar as needed, both to describe what they think about their interactions and later on to advance the plot. 
> 
> ******  
> The warning for this chapter would probably be that all these circumstances under which they got together could (and probably should) be perceived as dub con.

Nora’s hands are trembling and no amount of meditation can help her calm down the entire day. She wonders if her heart can even take this much fear for this long and then finally, finally, something in her gives, and she just stops caring.    
It is too exhausting to be on high alert all the time. Especially if her chances are nil.    
  
The honey scent lingers on her and after a few hours, she’s gotten used to it. It’s actually quite pleasant. Everything is quite pleasant now, as a matter of fact.    
  
She eats the last remaining bit of junk food she still has after having decided to live a healthy lifestyle, a box of cookies. She always has one around for when her period comes and she craves sugar. Her period is about two weeks away now and she probably won’t live that long so why not.    
  
How does she say goodbye to this world?    
She never met her father and she has stopped any contact with her mother several years prior, after having been squeezed out of the family when stepfather and new siblings entered the picture.    
They would not even care.    
  
The only person she would want to see one last time is her grandmother, but she died the previous July.    
Her friends are not really her friends, she has many on paper, but she now realizes they’re not that close.    
She’s single, so not even a boyfriend she would want to speak to one last time.    
  
Even if she had all these relationships, it would probably be too risky to reach out because what if the creature then goes after them, too?    
She never thought she would have to think about this at 24.    
  
What choices could she have made differently? It is sad to be this alone at 24, especially having in mind that she doesn’t think she is a horrible person.    
Then why does she have no love in her life?    
  
If anyone ever asked her what she thought a person who is about to die would do during their last days or hours, getting work affairs in order would not have crossed her mind. But she hardly has anything better to do.    
So, she edits and sends out the last of her recordings, concludes any orders, and then promptly deletes all her job accounts.    
  
Nora is, among other freelancing jobs she has, primarily a voice actress. It is something she always wanted to do. She always wanted to act, but she always considered herself too plain-looking and too awkward to be an actress, but she always liked her own voice. Besides, the pressure is far lower. She doesn’t have to undergo extreme transformations for roles, nobody follows her around to take pictures of her throwing out her garbage and the only people who recognize and come up to her are convention visitors.    
  
Some of the characters she voices are everything she wishes she was: confident, strong, skilled, badass. She’s sure her favorite role, Babe Ruthless could defeat the alien creature.    
  
Babe Ruthless started as an independently made webcomic when she was still at university and although the character’s appearance kind of resembled the iconic Tank Girl, the actual setting and plot were urban and the main character was a genetically and magically augmented secret agent that arrested or neutralized supernatural entities that broke the laws of coexistence balance.    
  
Nora was over the moon when she learned from the artist’s website that the comic had piqued the interest of a small, but amazing, animation studio. The Kickstarter campaign exploded and she was lucky enough to get the job of voicing Babe.    
Even a video game collaboration was in the works at the moment, but… she will not be alive to work on it.    
  
Still, it was fun while it lasted, she was voicing a cyborg witch who commanded force magic and antimatter control. Babe carried a negative energy bazooka, how badass was that?    
She also never needed to sleep or eat and could heal any wound in a matter of seconds.    
Her only drawback was actually the most fun to voice. She had DID, as a result of all the experiments and procedures needed to turn her into this badass heroine. So, she would switch personalities and thus voices and mannerisms, making her a great challenge for any voice actor.    
  
And perhaps the best of all, her original creator is a woman, meaning she was never unnecessarily sexualized, which Nora especially liked. Even if it wasn’t her own skin showing, she was glad that she could voice a woman who lived, and lived well, in a fucked up world that had her turned into a weapon, but not into a sex object. Just how it would be with a male protagonist.    
  
It was like someone asked themselves what it would look like to take Adam Jensen, Deadpool, and maybe Blade and merge them and turn them female?   
She didn’t depend on male characters and her story revolved around and was driven by her.    
  
Nora sighs. None of that is how the real world works.    
It doesn’t matter anyway.    
Other people will now hopefully fight to change that, she is done for.    
  
She looks through her old photo albums, pays her bills online (no matter what happens to her, she would not die in debt) and she decides to do all the things she loves one last time.    
  
So, she rewatches her favorite movie, Bladerunner.    
She also watches a handball game.    
She makes herself hot chocolate.    
She wears her favorite clothes and paints her nails after having groomed herself. The honey scent is there even after a second shower.    
She destroys or throws away anything she owns that could be embarrassing, formats her hard drive, deletes all her social media, and wipes her list of contacts.    
  
And then she waits.    
  
One would think the waiting would be the worst part, but she’s not afraid anymore, vaguely remembering the five (or was it six?) stages of grief. Has she been through them all? She’s reached acceptance.    
  
So, she uses the only remaining media she has, the music playlist on her phone, and plays her favorite songs, humming along and waiting to die.    
She’s even too much of a coward to do it herself, she realizes. She just hopes her end will be quick and relatively painless.    
  
Several days go by.    
The theatrical aspect and the profound sadness of saying goodbye to the world have faded and she now feels irritated. Is it possible that she was wrong about all this?    
  
She dares think that the creature might have just been joking with her. Perhaps scaring people is what it considers funny?    
Nora knows she’s being irrational and that if that is the case and if the creature is not coming back, she should rejoice, have hope again, be grateful! Maybe she was spared after all!    
  
It’s crazy, it’s absolutely insane, but she feels angry at how much work it would now take to undo everything she’s done.    
She quit her jobs!    
She destroyed almost every sentimental item she owned! All those photos and letters and files and journals… she can never get those back!    
She mailed her landlord that she would not be renewing her lease!    
She…    
  
She now has to build up her life all over again.    
  
Perhaps this is why, when she picks up on the sound of not being alone in the apartment anymore, she just lifts her gaze toward the shimmering, invisible source of the honey scent:   
  
“You surely are a predator of its word. Took you long enough, though.”    
  
The creature reveals itself and it is surreal. It has to bend its head slightly to stand in her living room. Nora only then notices that, along with the helmet (or is that really its face and hair?) and the assorted pieces of, now well-lit and obviously well-used armor, it is wearing… fishnet? A fishnet bodysuit?    
  
Great. Just great. An alien murderer trying to look sexy.    
  
The creature is barefoot and its toes, just like its fingers, are clawed and scary-looking.    
There are some weapons holstered from its belt and Nora thinks those could be melee or ranged firearms or not, she has no idea, but this time, it doesn’t have the gun on its shoulder.    
  
It, however, does have a bag in its hand. It looks like a cloth bag and for a moment, she thinks it looks like it contains a handball, whatever is in there is roughly that size and shape.    
  
They stare at each other for a long time and Nora thinks it hears some sounds from the creature. Like some clicks or whirrs or thrills, but it is muffled.    
So, it definitely  _ is  _ wearing a mask.    
But, if those sounds are actually speech, she has no hope whatsoever of understanding it and she wonders if the creature is aware of this.    
  
She swallows a heavy gulp of air:   
  
“Can… can you do it painlessly at least? Quickly? Please?”    
  
The creature’s back straightens (it was standing ever more hunched than was the ceiling’s limitation, she now realizes) and it tilts its huge head to the side, completely ignoring that it bumps it against the ceiling in the process. She cannot resist laughing, no matter how scary this is.   
The creature just stares, tilting its head even more and Nora at least understands that. It looks like it is surprised.    
  
“Killing me. I waited as you said and I will accept my fate. Just please, don’t torture me. This is my last wish.”    
  
She doesn’t know if these creatures respect things like last wishes, but she tries anyway.    
To her surprise, the creature shakes its head vigorously, clicking rapidly from behind the mask, and Nora wonders what even is it clicking  _ with.  _ Teeth? Tongue? Some weird alien speech apparatus? Some organ she’s never even heard of before?    
  
Then it starts purring again and the honey scent intensifies. Her eyes widen and she coughs. The purr is not smooth like a cat’s, but more whirring and clicky, and of course, much louder, but it still sounds too much like purring to not be purring. Or maybe, for this alien, this is singing? Is it singing some sort of the last song for her?    
  
And then it fiddles with its gauntlet (its alien Pipboy) again and pieces more assorted voice recordings together:   
  
“No. No. No. Killing. You and I, together.”    
  
Nora stumbles backward. What is this creature saying?! It and her together? Her stomach turns and the creature takes a small step further away before playing another recording:   
  
“Easy, easy, girl, I won’t hurt ya.”    
  
It points at its chest with its free hand and plays:   
  
“He.”   
  
Then it points at Nora and plays:   
  
“She.”    
  
Then another recording, a repeated voice from before:   
  
“Together.”    
  
Her legs nearly give out. Okay, okay. So the creature is a  _ he. And he likes her?!  _   
This creature is here to… No, that can’t be.    
She can’t be assaulted by a huge alien, that is possibly even worse than death, she can’t…    
  
Then she realizes something. The alien has kept his distance from her and hasn’t tried to touch her. He also played that recording that said he won’t hurt her.    
So, how did he intend for this to go down? To flood the room with this heady scent until she passes out and then have his way with her? Are these alien roofies?    
  
She makes a point of breathing through her mouth:   
  
“What do you mean, together?”    
  
Her heart is banging in her ears. She knows the answer to this question might be the worst possible thing she will ever hear.    
And then a snippet of her own voice is played back to her:   
  
“Please? This is my…” it is then replaced with another one: “Gift for you.”    
  
Her skin crawls as the creature opens the bag and starts pulling out whatever is inside. Before it’s in her view, he once again repeats the recording from the first time they met:   
  
“No fear!”    
  
It sounds jarring, as the man in the recording sounds like a team leader giving a motivating speech, he is shouting.    
And then she sees what deceptively looked like a handball before.    
  
It is a skull.    
A human skull.    
It is, however, very white? Polished? Almost artificial-looking, like the plastic ones from biology cabinets, but she has a feeling it is very much real.    
The creature bends further, almost into a bow, and holds out the skull for her to take.    
  
Nora cannot move a muscle. Not even to run away. She’s cold and nauseous. This creature is giving her a skull of her own kind as a present? He really is a monster!    
  
When she doesn’t move, the creature looks at her, position unchanging save for the lifting of his gaze and he plays another recording, nodding at the skull pointedly. This one she recognizes all too well:   
  
“You little bi…”    
  
The alien nods at the skull one more time, as if to emphasize what he played.    
The skull belonged to the man who grabbed her throat, the first one whom the predator killed that night. Nora swallows thickly again:   
  
“Why are you giving that to me?”    
  
Once more:   
  
“Gift. You and I, together.”    
  
_ A courting gift?! _   
  
“Is this your equivalent of flowers?”    
  
It’s bizarre, and that is an understatement.    
Nora has dated strange characters before, well, strange by human standards. One ex-boyfriend enjoyed collecting rocks and shells. Like a crow, she often thought.    
He made and gave her jewelry made of shells on more than one occasion.   
Could shells also be perceived as pieces of corpses?   
Well, flowers, too, come to think of it.    
  
Do all species give dead things as courting gifts?    
But flowers and shells and even bird skulls are one thing!    
She’s not a flower or a clam or a bird!    
She is human!    
And he’s giving her a human skull!    
  
“Will you kill me if I refuse?” She almost whispers and this again takes the alien aback. It gazes at her again and she can see the small tilt of his head before he slowly shakes it.    
  
“You won’t?”    
  
Another shake of his head, again, slow.   
  
“You hesitated. So… you either have considered it or… or… I will be killed, just maybe not by you?”    
  
The creature is silent for a moment before a recording of a female voice sounds:   
  
“I’m sorry.”    
  
Nora buries her face in her palms for a moment, speaking through her hands:   
  
“So, my options are to either die or accept your courting gift? What will happen to me if I accept?”    
  
The creature seems to think as it fiddles with the Pipboy, probably trying to piece together something coherent:    
  
“I won’t hurt ya. You and I, together. These things are hunters, stronger than all of us, we don’t stand a chance! Training. You and I, together. Training. Hunt. I won’t hurt ya. No fear!”    
  
Many of the recordings are repeated and recycled and Nora briefly thinks that this creature did well for someone who apparently has limited “vocabulary”.    
  
“You will train me to hunt…  _ with  _ you?”    
  
The predator nods, a thrill that Nora thinks sounds satisfied sounding from his mask.    
  
“And by “these things”, you mean your kind?”    
  
The predator nods once again:   
  
“Yes. Predator.”    
  
“Will we be hunting… my kind?”    
  
The predator lets out a clicking noise that to Nora, sounds… frustrated? Maybe it doesn’t have a clip to answer that? So, she decides to help him:    
  
“Do you hunt humans for food?”    
  
He hisses without hesitation, his posture growing rigid, and shakes his head.    
  
“Do you hunt humans for sport? As trophies?”    
  
The creature nods, this time with some hesitation, and Nora thinks that it might be perceived as him being uncomfortable to admit as much to her.    
  
“I assume for something to be considered a trophy, it needs to be special in some regard. So, do you have a requirement for what kind of humans you hunt?”    
  
The creature nods, no hesitation this time.    
  
“What is the requirement?”    
  
As if remembering something, he perks up and finds a recording:    
  
“Motherfucking scum of the Earth.”    
  
Nora’s eyes widen as she feels almost as if a hand around her throat finally let go:   
  
“Like criminals?”   
  
The creature nods and plays a recording:   
  
“These things have no mercy, no honor, no heart. They are sick and twisted.”    
  
Nora shudders. The woman in the clip was probably talking about the predators, but:   
  
“This time, by “these things” you mean these kinds of humans?”    
  
He nods, another satisfied click and another recording cocktail:    
  
“These things are… strong-, they are sick and twisted.”    
  
Nora’s mind is shouting in what she knows should still be fear, but more closely resembles elation:   
  
“You kill humans that are scum, but strong? So humans that other humans might be weak against?”    
  
He nods again, playing some more snippets:    
  
“Others. Too. Sick and twisted. Strong. Prey.”    
  
Without realizing, Nora takes a step closer to the predator:    
  
“So… you are like… intergalactic pest control?”    
  
The predator’s head tilts in what is unmistakably surprise before he throws it back and starts clicking more rapidly than ever before, his torso quivering and Nora understands this:   
  
“Are you laughing?!”    
  
He shakes his free hand and lowers his head again, still clicking as he nods.    
  
“So, if I accept your gift, I will be trained to do what you do, with you?”    
  
He nods. Nora’s eyes narrow:   
  
“You killed three strong men the other night in a few seconds. You’re stronger than several humans combined. Why do you want a human, a weak one at that, as your hunting companion?”    
  
He stops chuckling and fiddles with his screen before giving up and pointing at her and then at him and then at her stomach before making a gesture of a big stomach on himself.    
Nora staggers back:    
  
“You want to… have babies with me?!”    
  
She should have known immediately. He offered a courting gift! Of course he wouldn’t want to just hold hands!    
  
“But… but… Is that even possible?! We’re not the same species!” 

  
He nods vigorously.    
  
“Still! Why do you want to have babies with a species weaker than you? Wouldn’t that result in offspring weaker than you?”    
  
He stands as straight as the ceiling allows him (he didn’t forget about it the second time) and shakes his head solemnly:   
  
“Training. These things have- honor. Heart.”    
  
“So, you think that with training and upbringing, they could be strong?”    
  
Another happy-sounding thrill and another vigorous nod. Nora sighs:    
  
“You have a big head.”    
  
He again looks taken slightly aback and he tilts his head and it reminds Nora of people being mildly offended and saying “excuse me?” so she defends quickly:   
  
“I’m not saying that as an insult! I mean, all of you is very, very big, compared to me, but your head is super big! I simply wonder if such a head could… go out.”    
  
She blushes at basically having told him her concerns about labor.    
She doesn’t know if he is even capable of blushing but his body language, a shift of his weight and slight drooping of his shoulders, communicates embarrassment well enough. He clicks a few times before he plays another recording:   
  
“No fear!”    
  
“That’s easy for you to say! Or play, whatever! You won’t be the one pushing these children out of your body!”    
  
This time, the shake of his head looks amused, as further emphasized by more chuckle-clicking:    
  
“No fear! Strong!” He is pointing at her and then at himself: “Help!”    
  
Nora notes how she completely got used to the tone and context of the original recordings not matching their topic and tone of the conversation.   
  
“You will help me?”    
  
A purr and a nod and more of the honey scent.    
She bites her lip. Even if labor worries are eased, there is this one action, actually conceiving that child, that worries her. He is a huge boy after all. She can imagine that, indeed, all of him is huge. She gulps and tries to ignore how he perks up as if he can read her mind, his purr sounding… more satisfied?    
  
“Why are you purring like that? Can you… can you know what I am thinking?”    
  
He shrugs and even without seeing his face, she knows he is smug about this:   
  
“That’s creepy! Get out of my head!”    
  
He laughs again before shaking his head. Maybe he can’t exactly read her mind but he happened to deduce what she’s thinking about? Even some people can do that fairly easily.    
  
She crosses her arms:    
  
“Alright. You promised to not hurt me if I accept and I will choose to believe you are being truthful. I don’t even know why I’m doing that, but I guess it is what it is.”    
  
He tenses a bit and looks more serious:   
  
“Honor!”    
  
Nora blinks:    
  
“You’re honorable?”    
  
He nods and Nora sighs, but not without a small smile:    
  
“Alright, Mr. Honorable, I believe you. But! Before I accept your gift, I need to know your name and I need to see your face. I have no idea what you look like!”    
  
She slowly raises her right hand:   
  
“I want to shake hands with you, as an introduction. Just don’t squeeze too hard. My name is Nora. Incidentally, that means “honor”.”    
  
He lets out a happy thrill and takes her right hand in his left. He probably doesn’t know how handshakes truly work, and he’s also still holding the skull in his right.    
His touch is surprisingly gentle, even as her hand basically disappears in his much larger one. His skin feels leathery but it is not too rough, it’s warm, nearly hot, and Nora doesn’t know what she expected, but he’s not wet like a frog.    
Right. He’s not a reptile. They wouldn’t be able to have kids if he was anything but a mammal.    
At least she hopes so. She cannot lay eggs. And it sounds terrifying.    
  
He shakes her hand slowly, appearing afraid he’d hurt her if he stops being tentative (probably warranted) and he hesitates to let go for a few moments before he locks eyes with hers through the mask and lets out a series of slow, deliberate noises.    
Nora cannot hope to catch that:   
  
“Is that your name?”    
  
He nods.   
  
“I’m sorry. Can you please repeat? Even slower. I will try to repeat it after you.”    
  
He leans in slightly and says it again, Nora’s brows knitting in focus before she attempts to replicate the noises. The first sound is like a small hiss of air through teeth, a Z or an S, the second is further back, almost throaty, making her feel like he clicks from his throat when he speaks, and then there is definitely a vowel, a clear A, and then a purring-like sound.    
  
“Sssss-G-aaa-rrrr?”    
  
He chuckles, shaking his head and says it again. Nora tries again:    
  
“Ssss…Caaaa-rrrr?”    
  
He shakes his head again (and she was half-hoping his name really was Scar, although what would justify it could look scary) and says it one more time and she can finally hear where she’s making a mistake:   
  
“Oh, I see! Z! Not S! Z-karrr!”    
  
He half nods and motions for her to do it again, circling his index finger and it is oddly endearing, it’s almost the same as the human gesture for “close” when playing charades:   
  
“Z-kaarr! No, no, wait, you said a vowel after the first sound! I got it! Zakaar!”    
  
Apparently, she’s correct this time around because he nods happily and pats her head gently with his left hand. Nora mock-pouts. It’s like even alien boys watch anime if he’s praising her with a head pat.    
  
“Can I see your face now, Zakaar?”    
  
He appears uncomfortable with this before he plays a recording:    
  
“It has a face not even a mother can love. Fit for the Devil.”    
  
Nora pauses for a moment:    
  
“Is this recording about you specifically?”    
  
He nods. Well, that's just rude, Nora thinks before she remembers that whoever said it was being _hunted_ by Zakaar. Probably rudeness can be excused under those circumstances.   
  
“Do you look like a typical member of your species?”    
  
That was very rude, she belatedly realized. She basically asked him if he was disfigured. Luckily for her, he doesn’t take offense and just nods again. Nora smiles:   
  
“Soooo… maybe, on your planet, you’re considered handsome?”    
  
He is again surprised and then embarrassed and then he just shrugs tentatively and it is Nora’s turn to laugh:    
  
“Oh, come on, don’t go all shy and humble on me! I bet you’re a real hunk! Let me see you! You’ve seen me, remember, and I don’t know how much you know or care about human beauty standards, but I am average at best.”    
  
He lets out a thrill that sounds defensive and shakes his head before reaching for her face and Nora reflexively flinches, stopping him immediately:   
  
“Sorry. You just surprised me. Go on.”    
  
He slows his movement even more and gently brushes the back of his fingers against her cheek before he speaks, in his own voice this time, slowly and clearly, probably for her to pick up:   
  
“ _ A’ket’anu. _ ”    
  
Nora doesn’t know what that means, but she presumes it’s something nice, judging by his demeanor.    
  
He pulls his hand back with reluctance and looks around himself awkwardly, still holding the skull, and Nora assumes that she cannot take it from him because that would be acceptance and she should see his face first. She moves a lamp on an end table and frees up space:   
  
“You can place it there for the time being.”    
  
He does so before his hands go to the sides of his mask and he unfastens it with a small huffing noise from the mask, like air pressure was let out. Nora only then realizes that maybe the mask is helping him breathe. His chest huffs, like he’s taking a deep breath as he slowly lowers it.    
It is cute, she thinks, for this big, strong boy to be embarrassed to show his face.    
  
The first thing she realizes is that the dreadlocks are definitely organic because she can see how they’re growing from his head, which looks like a large dome. He doesn’t have any “hair” on the very top of his head and she is briefly reminded of how samurai used to shave that part. But his skin looks like there naturally is no hair there. His mask is still covering the lower part of his face so she’s taking in everything as it is revealed. The skin on his head is mottled, the pattern slightly less opaque than it is on his body, but still the same green and gold, a green cluster of spots going down the middle of his forehead and then two darker golden ones along the sides of his “hairlines”, this pattern almost looks like the M tabby cats have on their heads.    
  
He lowers the mask a little more so she can see his eyes.

His brow ridge is strong and his eyes very deep-set, no eyebrows in sight. But what strikes her the most is the color of his eyes. They’re golden and clear, round, black pupils (she still half-expected reptilian slits) boring straight into her and he either has no eyelashes or she cannot discern them, because the skin around his eyes is so dark green it appears black. He blinks the same way humans do, she discovers, lids closing horizontally.    
  
She smiles at him:    
  
“You have very pretty eyes. And I like your complexion. Let me see your nose.”    
  
He chuckles again and it is much clearer now that the mask is off and he shakes his head a little, taking a deep breath before the rest of the mask is abruptly lowered, revealing his entire face like he ripped a band-aid.    
  
Nora told herself that she would not do this, whatever he looks like, but not even in her wildest dreams could she have predicted that he has… mandibles?!    
  
He has a set of “normal” jaws underneath the mandibles, although she thinks that jaw looks rather small for the rest of his face. His mandibles are closed and she notices that they can protect the chin that way. Maybe his chin is very soft. Hm. All humans have a weak point right in the middle of their chins. This might be one way evolution dealt with that.    
  
She wonders how come she’s not… disgusted. She ought to be. He has no nose but instead has a set of sharp teeth and then four big tusks on top of his mandibles, but all she can think about is how happy she is that all his teeth and tusks are not only intact, but they look clean and fairly white.    
He notices where she’s looking and opens his mandibles slowly, as if giving her a better look.    
  
They can flare out  _ far.  _   
She wonders what kind of a tongue he has, but he is not a circus attraction! She cannot just ask him to let her see it for her amusement.    
  
“Well…” She clears her throat and his mandibles close and click inquisitively.    
  
“This is the first time I see a face like yours, but you probably knew that already. Guess we will have to be creative when it comes to kissing.”    
  
He tilts his head and she can now see his expressions, the muscles in his brows knitting together.    
  
“Do you know what kissing is?”    
  
He shakes his head:    
  
“H”ko.”    
  
“That means “no”, right?”    
  
He nods:   
  
“Sei-i.”   
  
“I’ll try to remember that. But, kissing is something humans often do, with their lips and sometimes tongues. It is sometimes done as a greeting between family members, friends, or lovers, but more often than that, it is just a sign of affection.”    
  
He perks up when he hears about affection, mandibles opening slightly and eyes glinting and she thinks that must be a smile.    
She points at her lips:   
  
“These are my lips. If I want to kiss someone, I would do this. Except on their skin.”    
  
She purses her lips in the air and kisses it, deliberately loudly so he can see and hear it well.   
He appears like he’s thinking about this, chuckling quietly.    
  
“I know, it must look funny!” She concedes and he vaguely gestures all over himself and then all over her.    
  
“Where do kisses go?”   
  
“Sei-i.”    
  
“That depends on the relationship and the purpose of the kiss. But… let’s say usually hands, cheeks, foreheads, noses, lips, and necks. They can also go anywhere lower than that but everything except hands, cheeks, and foreheads is pretty much only for lovers.”    
  
He nods happily and plays a recording:   
  
“I hope so.”    
  
He picks up the skull from the little table and once again bends slightly, holding it out to her.    
Nora’s hands are trembling as she takes it from him slowly. She’s never touched a real human skull before and she never thought she would touch one that used to belong to anyone she had previously encountered, much less under all these other literally outlandish circumstances.    
  
Zakaar straightens out to full height again, clicking and thrilling happily and she doesn’t know if he’s talking or just doing his species’ equivalent of chuckling or humming.    
He takes a step toward her and even though she’s not afraid of him anymore, she involuntarily tenses.    
He purrs as if to reassure her before pressing his index finger to his tusks and then touching her forehead with it. She laughs:    
  
“I see you’ve already found a creative way to kiss, haven’t you?”    
  
She mimics what he did with her own index finger on her lips and he helpfully bends a little to let her touch his forehead. They’re both chuckling and she thinks that Zakaar is actually… cute.    
  
It’s weird, considering all the emotions over the previous few days, but…    
If those days have taught her anything, it’s that she doesn’t have much going for her in her life. She’s alone and lonely. And if she has to choose between being lonely at home, wilting away just working and having meaningless, fake friendly conversations; and punishing serial killers, child molesters, war profiteers or others that could be classified as “scum” so that they can’t harm normal people ever again... The choice might be terrifyingly easy for her, but she is sure of it.    
  
Zakaar clicks above her head and she looks up at him. He finds a good recording:   
  
“We have to go, now!”    
  
“Go where?”    
  
He points at himself and plays:   
  
“Home.”    
  
“Oh. To your planet?”    
  
He shakes his head, once again looking kind of frustrated, but apologetic and she assumes he doesn’t have a clip that would explain that, so she stops pushing:   
  
“Alright, can I pack a bag first? I want to bring some clothes and stuff.”    
  
He nods and plays another recording:   
  
“Weapons.”    
  
Nora pauses, scratching the back of her neck:   
  
“I don’t have any weapons, I’m afraid. Nor do I have much experience using any. Is that a problem? Is it mandatory that I have my own weapon?”    
  
He shakes his head slowly and gestures for her to go and pack, although she doesn’t miss how he sighs before adjusting his mask back on.    
She hopes he knows what kind of a klutz he chose to be his partner.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A'ket'anu= beautiful 
> 
> I am hellbent on making Zakaar super cute and filling this with tooth-rotting fluff, lol.   
> Hope that's okay!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is tagged with "pseudoscience" and this chapter begins to explain why. I am no doctor or scientist of any kind and as much as I will try to keep things here not absolutely crazy, this fic will require a major suspension of disbelief. 
> 
> (btw I have spent DAYS, literal days, thinking about how the Yautja males, if their cocks are in sheaths, keep their spunk cool enough to not be useless? If they can mate with humans, that means their proteins are compatible with ours, and ours degenerate when their temperature goes over 45 degrees Celsius, right? So, assuming that the purpose of the sheath is to provide the genitalia with protection (and possibly lubrication, although they might also produce precum?) the testicles would also have to be in the sheath, meaning that there HAS to be some sort of a cooling system, perhaps an additional gland? OR the testicles would have to be external, which kinda defeats the purpose of the sheath but would explain why they wear codpieces. ARGH, it infuriates me. Thank you for coming to my Alien Dick TED Talk.)
> 
> Also, yes, I am a sucker for meta and Giger's vision was too great to not receive an honorable mention. That's the whole purpose of that. Respect to Giger AND Nora's (and mine) gripe that nobody fucking LISTENED TO RIPLEY. 
> 
> Rant over xD Hope you enjoy the chapter! ^_^

Zakaar never thought he would be inside an ooman home as a guest.    
He smiles to himself as his ma… Nora; goes to pack and leaves him in the sitting area and he decides to look around. He is not looking for anything specific, but he’s entertained when he sees items he recognizes from the times he still lived with his bearer.    
  
He’s humming happily to himself. His mate accepted his courting gift. Only once he’s got a few moments to think does he realize that he feels immense relief that she wasn’t as terrified of him as he feared. She even did that thing with her mouth that his bearer taught him is how oomans smile or laugh. It sounds good when she laughs.    
And she didn’t think his face was ugly!    
  
Zakaar never thought about his appearance much, but in recent cycles, when he became Bloodied, he realized that female Yautja did. Of course, the most important thing was whether he was a good, honorable hunter, but he couldn’t blame the females for also wanting an attractive male, in order for their pups to also look good, on top of being strong.    
  
Just recently, on their ship’s trip to Earth, he’s overheard two females talking about him and his friends at the bar.   
They called him a slice of  _ naxa!  _   
And, apparently, that was a good thing!    
Then, he started paying a little more attention to things like that and realized that, apparently, many females find him handsome, on top of thinking he was strong.    
  
All of that didn’t matter when Nora asked him to take his mask off.    
Oomans looked entirely different and oomans, without fail, thought Yautja were ugly and terrifying.    
But, she didn’t find him ugly and Zakaar thought that the gods must have smiled at him at the same time she did.    
  
It occurs to him that he never thought of oomans in terms of appearance, either. Well, not in terms of whether that appearance was appealing or not. He only ever looked at how efficient their bodies were when he hunted them, whether they’re a worthy challenge.    
That, Nora most certainly was not. She was  _ pyode,  _ almost entirely untrained, not very strong, and not an impressive survivor either, if her just going all slack upon meeting him was any indication. He wonders if that is an ooman female tactic. A vast majority of Yautja females could fight him as an equal and likely even beat him in hand-to-hand combat. He knew that ooman females who could do that even to ooman males were not in the majority. So, perhaps the best bet an ooman female had when a male could be a threat was to be complacent, beg for mercy, shut down?    
Most of his people would judge this kind of behavior harshly. Zakaar for now just wanted to know more about it and see if anything could be done. Nothing good comes out of surrender.    
  
And no mate of his should be someone who surrenders, who gives up.    
  
He was worried about this “kiss” thing she mentioned. He had no lips, and his teeth and tusks could seriously injure an ooman. But perhaps she would accept licks or forehead nuzzles as a substitute.    
All in good time.    
No matter how much he wanted to take her into his arms and scent and feel her again, especially now that he’s felt her own scent, so strong here in her nest, Zakaar knew that he had to wait for her permission.    
  
It was a given even if he was courting another Yautja, an honorable male would never force himself on a potential mate (for life or otherwise) without her consent for courting to take place.    
He wondered how many things were different or similar in ooman courting. How did oomans court?    
Were courting gifts also a thing?    
He presumed they were because he couldn’t imagine any female wanting to mate without knowing her mate was a good provider and a strong male.    
  
But what would oomans give to one another?    
  
He slowly walked around the space, the faint sound of Nora’s rustling as she packed displeasing him. She was far too loud. Of course, it is great that she feels safe enough here, and with him, to be relaxed but she needed to learn the habit of always being at least somewhat careful.    
  
A nice smell from a shelf attracts him.    
It smelled like trees, but also like something he could not identify and he pulled out one of the small objects, they were all lined next to each other and they all looked the same, except for a different symbol on their sides, that Zakaar, after inspecting them, concluded were ooman numbers.    
  
The object looked a little worn and it gaped a little in his hand. It was comprised of many thin sheets of some white material with ooman lettering and pictures on it.    
He’s seen something similar before, but it only had lettering, no pictures, and the outer shell was harder than this one, and seemingly made of leather.    
  
He looks at the pictures.    
These are probably what oomans call “drawings”.    
They’re almost impossible to find in traditional Yautja society, as art is not among popular or useful occupations or hobbies, so mostly only very small pups engage in it.    
But, to his bearer, art of other species was an interesting area of research.   
  
He discovers the sheets are very crisp and vulnerable… and noisy. His claw almost tears through one as he browses. Also, whatever was used to put these images on the sheet is very well fixed, because nothing smears or distorts under his touch. He will have to ask Nora about this.    
  
And then he’s shocked, an angry hiss leaving him before he even thinks and Nora’s startled face peeks from the door:   
  
“What happened?!”    
  
So much for always being careful and on alert!  _ Pauk,  _ he’s dumb!    
  
But, that drawing... That drawing looks like a  _ kainde amedha!  _   
He thought no ooman could survive an encounter with one in order to depict it!    
  
“Ohhhh, do you like it?” Nora smiles again and walks up to him and Zakaar points at the drawing, demanding an explanation.    
  
Nora appears pleased:   
  
“Those are comics… uhm, picture books with a story, by a very famous human artist. He passed away a few years ago, but he used to draw the most terrifying creatures, often looking like that, like some sort of snake that doesn't look quite organic or quite mechanical either. I don’t really know much about his life, but I believe he saw these creatures in his nightmares… those are bad dreams, when you sleep.”   
  
She tilts her head to the side, closing her eyes and pressing her palms together before putting them under her cheek and Zakaar scoffs. She thinks he doesn’t know what sleep and dreams are?    
  
He points at the book again, tilting his head in a question and Nora hums:    
  
“This, in particular, is a story about a crew of seven people on a spaceship and there is also this… alien, on board with them.”    
  
She gently flips through a few pages until she gets to the scene of the  _ kainde amedha _ wreaking carnage on the ship and crew:   
  
“It’s a very futuristic comic, there is no technology such as this on Earth at the moment. Oh, there is also a movie about this… that is a video of actors pretending to be in certain situations. Ripley is such a queen.” She laughs and Zakaar quickly plays her words back to her:   
  
“Ripley. Queen.” He tilts his head to convey that those are questions and Nora starts grabbing some items around the room to bring along:   
  
“Ripley is the main character, that lady you see with curly hair. The whole clusterfuck on the ship wouldn’t even have happened if the rest of the crew just listened to her and left the fucking eggs alone, like she asked! But, nobody listens to women here!”    
  
Despite himself, Zakaar laughs.    
Oomans have to really be dumb to ignore a female’s wisdom, especially when it comes to survival. Female Yautja are widely respected for their inexplicable, but time and time again proven gut feelings when it comes to danger. Zakaar believes this is the advantage evolution gave them, in order to protect their pups, they know how to avoid unnecessary dangers.    
  
“It’s not funny.” Nora protests and Zakaar cannot quite read the expression on her face. Her brows are knit together and her mouth is pursed. It doesn’t exactly look angry, but he does think she is displeased. It’s adorable.   
  
“They didn’t listen to Ripley and the Alien killed all of them before she defeated it.”    
  
Zakaar’s eyes widen. An ooman woman, defeating a  _ kainde amedha _ ?    
He flips through the pictures. The specimen is clearly young but even young, they present a worthy challenge to Unbloodied Yautja hunters, who train for many cycles for that moment and they know what they will be fighting against, yet many of them are defeated.    
And these oomans had no idea what they were up against.    
  
Yet… the person who made these drawings depicted the  _ kainde amedha _ with terrifying accuracy. Could it be possible that oomans encountered it at some point? If so, Nora doesn’t know about it. She said the technology in the story doesn’t exist. Zakaar doesn’t understand anything.    
  
Nora chuckles again:    
  
“Why are you so interested in that comic, anyway? Don’t tell me the Alien looks like a species you have encountered?”    
  
Zakaar resists the urge to scoff and steps toward Nora, taking his mask off. She flinches but remains in place and he shows her the side of his cheek, leaning in. She didn’t notice it the first time around, but he hopes this draws her attention to the  _ kainde amedha _ blood scar on his cheek.    
His voice library cannot really explain how blooding works, so he will have to rely on her asking the correct questions again.    
He points at the creature on the sheet:   
  
“ _ Kainde amedha. _ ” Then he points at his cheek: “ _ kainde amedha. _ ”    
  
Realization mixed with denial blooms on her face:   
  
“Is that how you call that creature? But it’s fiction!”    
  
“H’ko.”    
  
This time, Nora takes a step back in fright:   
  
“You mean to tell me… The Alien exists?”    
He points at the ooman skull he brought her earlier and then at the kainde amedha in the comic, then at his scar and then at his chest. Nora’s mouth gapes a little:   
  
“You… also have its skull?”    
  
Zakaar is pleased with how clever she is.   
  
“Are they… as dangerous as in the comic?”    
  
Zakaar doesn’t really know to what extent their power is depicted there, but killing 6 oomans? Definitely.    
  
“ _ Sei-i. _ ”    
  
Nora shakes her head vigorously, but even through her shock, keeps walking around her home and packing various items:   
  
“Was Giger fucking psychic then? How could he have drawn them so accurately? What other aliens from fiction actually exist? I hope I never have to cry for poor Ood again.”    
  
She keeps murmuring frantically, more to herself than him, ducking into a room that must be the lavatory if Zakaar’s sense of smell doesn’t deceive him, and it hardly ever does. The smell of ooman chemicals used for cleaning is abhorrent.    
  
“Will it be cold where we are going?” Her face peeks from the room and Zakaar shakes his head. She doesn’t really need to bring many items, it would mostly be useless on the ship anyway, but he knows she will most likely never return to her planet again. Letting her bring a little of her home with her is the least he can do. He knows how oomans get attached to their belongings.    
  
She finally swings a large duffel bag over her shoulder and points at her feet, clad in sturdy boots:   
  
“Will this do?”    
  
Even if he couldn’t smell it, he can see that she is nervous right before she gulps:   
  
“We won’t be encountering kai… kei… Aliens in the near future, will we? Or ever? I could live a happy life never encountering one, you know!”    
  
That is too bad. She will have to.    
  
“Not now.” He plays and Nora’s eyes widen before she takes in a noisy breath:   
  
“Well, I guess I will have to settle for that much. Oh, and Zakaar? You don’t plan on the two of us forever communicating like this? You obviously understand English. Can you speak it?”    
  
Zakaar shakes his head. He doesn’t even understand it, it is the translation microchip. Even if he did understand it naturally, it is not possible for his mouth to produce half of the sounds used in it. Just how it is not possible for Nora to truly speak Yautjan well.    
  
“I wish I could talk to you. Like, really talk to you.”    
  
He thrills happily. Soon enough.    
  


* * *

  
  
He does feel slightly guilty that he has to put Nora to sleep with his purring again before he takes her to the clanship. There is no way for him to explain the rules of conduct to her by using his voice clips, they mention nothing about the baring of her teeth when she smiles being perceived as a threat, or her typically ooman habit of maintaining eye contact being similarly dangerous.    
  
Besides, she will need to go through medical, get decontaminated, and fitted with some gear before she can be properly introduced to others.    
  
Thankfully, other Yautja on the ship do not question the fact that he is carrying an ooman over his shoulder, even though he catches a few curious glances, but they keep any comments to themselves. He suspects that the Captain had informed them of this happening. After all, he has granted Zakaar permission to bring her here. Since her status, until she becomes Zakaar’s mate and thus the resident of the ship, most closely resembles that of a guest, the Captain, as the ship’s leader, is responsible to ensure that no harm befalls a guest through no fault of her own.    
  
  
Zakaar navigates the ship’s long corridors until he reaches the medical bay. The smell of medicine and cleanliness is faint and, although pleasant in theory, evokes memories of grave wounds after hunts. No Yautja ever whines about those, but that doesn’t mean they enjoy them.    
  
Thankfully, Thun’Da is there. Zakaar really doesn’t feel like searching for him in case he went hunting for  _ naxa  _ jam, as is his habit. The head chef had threatened to dice his tresses with a searing knife if he catches him raiding the pantry again.    
Thun’Da’s mandibles twitch once he catches a whiff of Nora and he starts laughing:    
  
“I am not used to you bringing things that reek quite this bad, Zakaar!”    
  
The ship doctor is an old friend, otherwise, that remark would have gotten him a crushed windpipe.   
But since he is, Zakaar settles for a snarl and his signature Death Glare at Thun'Da:    
  
“My mate does not reek!”    
  
Thun’Da’s mandibles click in wheezy laughter:   
  
“So, it is true! The great Zakaar has decided to take a life mate and an ooman one at that! And she does reek of ooman chemicals and their odd fabrics… artificial and noticeable from a mile away. How our hunters could ever lose an ooman trail is beyond me! They all have so much stench piled on!”    
  
“You’ll wear your tusks blunt if you keep blabbering. Examine her.”    
  
Thun’Da does as he’s told and Zakaar has to first rein in his impulse to kill him when he touches Nora and then he has to remind him to not ruin her clothing. Thun’Da thankfully keeps his protests to Zakaar protecting her belongings to himself. Ooman or not, disrespecting a _sain’ja’s_ lifemate is not something an honorable Yautja wishes to do.   
  
The decontamination comes first and then Nora is examined and then fitted with thermal netting, not waking up through the process thanks to the additional sedatives and medicine Thun’Da administered:    
  
“She will need some footwear, I presume? I will have a pair crafted for her before long. I have installed the microchip, she will have to be wearing this mask as her respiratory system gets used to the air here. Do you want me to perform a retinal adjustment procedure?”    
  
Yautja require far less light than oomans do, meaning an ooman would hardly see a thing on a clanship, so Zakaar nods:    
  
“What of her general health?”    
  
Thun’Da looks pleased:   
  
“She is in prime bearing years for an ooman female. A healthy specimen and from what I can conclude with a preliminary genetic analysis, the traits most likely to be passed on are not unfavorable. For an ooman.” He once again emphasizes and Zakaar snarls at him quietly. Thun’Da continues, less tauntingly:   
  
“What I am saying is that, to another ooman, this female would be an exceptionally good bearer. No illnesses, no disabilities, the nature aspect of her physical and mental condition is good. The nurture one? Not so much. Zakaar, this ooman has led a lazy ooman life.”    
  
As most oomans do. Zakaar knows he has his work cut out for him when it comes to Nora’s training, but that does not deter him. He will prove just how much honor they both will bring to the clan!    
  
Thun’Da continues, nodding at the still-sleeping little ooman on the examination table:   
  
“Now that she’s been stripped of unnatural scents, I trust that it was her  _ dai-shui _ that called to you?”    
  
Luckily for the doctor, he sounds impartial when he says that, because if Zakaar detected that his friend also liked Nora’s scent, the fact that he is his friend would hardly save his life.    
  
Speaking of Nora’s scent… Zakaar tries to take as shallow breaths as possible when he nods.    
Thun’Da appears pleased:   
  
“That’s good. The Bond doesn’t happen often, especially in recent cycles. I have not researched a Yautja-ooman bond before so I do not know how she will be responding to you, but after all the adjustment procedures I have conducted fully take effect, you should be able to respond to her even better than you already do.”    
  
The Bond has nearly been relegated to a mythic phenomenon even before Zakaar was born. Not even life mates always have The Bond. It means that the two are as in sync as two can be, able to communicate on a nearly telepathic level. Zakaar is positive that he does have this bond with Nora. How would she know exactly what questions to ask him if that was not the case?    
  
He briefly considers just how much her scent communicates to him. She has been covered in all the unnatural ooman stuff, but even so, he could read her emotions well enough. That is supposed to only get more prominent, especially having in mind that a great hindrance is the fact that he still has so much to learn about her, what with her being of another species.    
Thun’Da’s voice snaps him out of his musings:    
  
“There is something else. I know even after a cursory glance, that this female is far from ready for the mating hunt, but I still think I should tell you this early. She will never get into heat.”    
  
Zakaar’s eyes widen in panic before Thun’Da raises a hand to calm him:   
  
“That is not a bad thing! She is an ooman! They don’t have heats or ruts! Ooman females are fertile nearly all the time, the calendar is very rapid, I will transmit all that info to your console, I am not a teacher, after all. However, do not be alarmed when you smell blood on her, it will happen two times per Yautja Prime Minor Lunar cycle.”    
  
Zakaar nods briefly:    
  
“I am familiar with the existence of female bleeding.”    
  
Thun’Da appears mildly surprised before he continues:   
  
“Also, in order for her to be able to conceive with you, I will need to conduct additional treatment and it would have to start at least 6 Minor Cycles before you have the mating hunt if you wish for her to be able to conceive at that time.”    
  
Zakaar almost nods again, but he then grunts, shaking his head:   
  
“That you will need to discuss with her. I would love that possibility but I think she will require your wisdom to reassure her that there will be no harm done to her bearing my pups.”    
  
Thun’Da’s expression is one of disapproval:   
  
“Your female is afraid of bearing pups?”    
  
“She remarked on the size of my head.”    
  
Thun’Da blinks at him a couple of times before bursting into laughter:   
  
“I see you have found yourself a truthful one! You do have a formidably large head!”    
  
Zakaar snarls but decides to let the joke slide in favor of having his friend agree to help Nora when the time comes.    
  
“Anything else I should know?”   
  
“That is it for now. She will be waking up shortly and she should come to see me every morning for the next seven day cycles for checkups and any adjustments to her adaptation treatment that I would need to do. You can take her to her cabin now. The Captain designated one for her near the Unbloodied rooms. It’s all on your console’s map. And I expect some payment for this, Zakaar!”    
  
Zakaar knows what he means. His fucking _naxa_ jam. Addict.    
  
  


* * *

  
  
When Nora comes to, the first thing she sees is the metal ceiling with weird symbols engraved on it. They look like the lines of calculator numbers if the calculator was malfunctioning and only some of the lines were visible. She looks at them for a moment, illuminated by faint red lights hidden along the sides of the wall. Right under the red strips of light, she sees the words Why Pee Midnight Terror Prowler inscribed. She looks back at the ceiling. Meaningless lines. Back at the wall. Legible (although non-sensical) words. She blinks a few times, inclining her head.    
  
“You’re awake.”    
  
She nearly jumps up to a seating position on what she now notices is a bed covered with various soft furs and pelts. In fact, the bed is absolutely cluttered with them and they are arranged almost like a nest, smelling strongly of the honey scent Nora has learned to recognize as Zakaar’s. Is it his sweat? Deodorant? Musk? She’s just happy it’s not a bad smell.    
  
Zakaar is sitting on a chair next to her bed, having removed most of his armor and being left in leather garments that could be his equivalent of a tracksuit. His fishnet is still on, though.    
Nora doesn’t have time to inspect his impressive physique before realization dawns on her:   
  
“Did you just speak English?”    
  
Zakaar thrills:   
  
“No. You just got a chip installed that lets you understand Yautjan. And other languages.”    
  
If he thinks she would be impressed by this… well, he is right, but most importantly:   
  
“A chip?! Where?”    
  
“In your brain, naturally. You also received some minor retinal surgery to be able to see around here. Are you finding it hard to breathe?”    
  
Nora isn’t sure if it’s due to the shock of this realization, but as a matter of fact, she is. Zakaar hands her a mask, not dissimilar to the one he was wearing earlier, although much smaller and without the large dome for the forehead:   
  
“This will help, put it on.”    
  
Nora is grateful for the mask, because the air is scalding and humid, making her feel like she can’t get enough oxygen. The mask clicks into place and the cool, slightly sour relief of pure oxygen washes over her nostrils and mouth and Zakaar continues:   
  
“The doctor injected you with a cocktail that should help you get acclimated soon enough, so don’t wear the mask all the time, but put it on if you must.”    
  
Nora removes her hands from the mask and it stays in place, making her wonder how it is remaining attached, prompting another chuckle from Zakaar as he shakes his head:   
  
“It interacts with the chip to remain in place. When you want to take it off, put your fingers along the sides and hold for a few moments. It will detect your fingerprints. It will not come off any other way, so don’t try to tug it off. Also…”   
  
He hands her a pair of sandals that look like they’re made of leather but the leather looks odd:   
  
“I am informed that oomans cannot walk barefoot comfortably, so use these.”    
  
Nora doesn’t accept the sandals immediately, instead looking at Zakaar:   
  
“Wait, wait. Where are we, what exactly has this… doctor done to me and…”    
  
Her gaze flits down her body with the intention of asking why she’s not all sweaty if the air she tried to breathe was that hot when she realizes that she’s naked. Well. Aside from the fishnet covering her body. She squeaks, grabbing the nearest pelt and covering herself:   
  
“You took my clothes off?! When did you do this, why am I wearing fishnet, what… Was I probed?!”    
  
Zakaar starts purring the moment she gets agitated, although her last question brings about a quiet snarl:   
  
“Nothing was placed in your orifices in an inappropriate manner. I was present all the time and Thun’Da is an honorable Yautja and my friend. He did not hurt you. What you’re wearing is thermal netting, it regulates your temperature. I was told to warn you to make sure you drink enough water.”    
  
Nora blinks a few times, trying to calm down. It gets easier the longer Zakaar purrs, a tranquil feeling slowly fuzzing on the outskirts of her consciousness:   
  
“Couldn’t you have put my clothes on over the netting at least?”    
  
Zakaar briefly considers this before his purr turns louder and even though his features are still alien to Nora, she thinks he looks smug:   
  
“I did not want to disturb your rest. And the netting looks better on you than your clothing.”    
  
“I am naked!”    
  
Zakaar merely nods, as if saying how that was exactly his point and Nora pouts:   
  
“I don’t know what your customs are, but humans generally do not get each other naked without permission.”    
  
Zakaar’s mandibles tremble a little and he tilts his head:   
  
“The period of adjustment to the net’s function is crucial. The fewer barriers between you and it and it and the environment, the better. You will be able to wear undergarments soon enough.”    
  
“So, until then, I’m to just walk around like this?!”    
  
His mandibles flare in sudden anger and Nora flinches. He resumes purring, looking apologetic:   
  
“Of course not. You are to stay here until morning. Nobody is to see you like this but me. You can get dressed then and you need to see Thun’Da for a checkup.”   
  
“Is that the doctor?”    
  
Zakaar nods.    
  
“Will he be injecting me with anything?”    
  
He nods again. Nora has never had a great fear of needles, but when she doesn’t know what this alien medicine even is…    
  
“Do not be afraid. He will not harm you.”    
  
“I am not afraid!”    
  
“No use in lying. I can smell it on you. It doesn’t suit you.”    
  
Nora’s eyes widen:   
  
“You can smell my fear?”    
  
“I can smell a great deal on you. Especially now, that you’ve been decontaminated.”    
  
“I’ve been what?!”    
  
“Stripped of artificial scents and substances.”    
  
Nora reaches for her hair on instinct and discovers that her hair is no longer dyed. All the dye just… vanished.    
Due to genetics not really being her friend, along with the trauma of the car accident when she was a teenager, Nora’s hair is more than a little peppered with grey and it is all the more noticeable contrasted with her naturally dark brown, almost black hair, which she had dyed into a pleasant cognac color. Zakaar’s gaze follows her hand:   
  
“You are young.” He remarks and Nora looks at him questioningly.    
  
“Yet, many of your tresses are pale. How come?”    
  
“Genetics and stress.” She doesn’t really feel like explaining.    
  
“Why were you hiding them with another color?”    
  
“Because this doesn’t look pretty.”    
Zakaar chuckles again:    
  
“Oomans surely place a lot of value in beauty.”    
  
Nora can’t resist but chuckle along:    
  
“We place a lot of value in youth. Grey hair is not a sign of youth. We also try to delay wrinkling and sagging of our skin, the thinning of our lips and hair… Anything that reveals that we are old.”    
  
“You have short lifespans.”    
  
Nora only then realizes that she doesn’t even know how old Zakaar is.    
  
“And your kind? Predators?”   
  
“Yautja.” He corrects: “Provided a Yautja dies of old age, it can be…”    
  
He taps a few times on his wrist console:   
  
“Up to perhaps a thousand of your cycles. Maybe even more.”    
  
The room spins:   
  
“A THOUSAND YEARS? We live for a hundred if we’re extremely lucky!”    
  
Zakaar laughs:    
  
“I know. I am currently…” He taps on the screen again, presumably converting:   
  
“127.”    
  
Nora’s mouth gapes for a few moments before she finally laughs incredulously:    
  
“Should I then call you Great Great Grand Daddy?”    
  
Zakaar’s head tilts:   
  
“What does that mean?”    
  
“You know… Daddy as in father and…”    
  
“Father as in sire? Why would you call me your sire?”    
  
Nora decides that the joke is not worth this embarrassing conversation:   
  
“Forget it, I’ll explain it some other time, it’s a silly joke. You still haven’t told me where we are.”    
  
Zakaar’s chest noticeably puffs in pride:   
  
“We are on the clanship! The ship of the Midnight Terror clan, Prowler!”    
  
“Midnight Terror…” Nora mulls it over:   
  
“And Why Pee?”    
  
“YP. Yautja Prime. Home planet.”    
  
Well, that makes way more sense. It seems that the chip doesn’t quite understand homophones.    
  
“And these lines?”   
  
She points at the ceiling. Zakaar shrugs:   
  
“Decorations. The Captain assigned this cabin to you and it is one of the better-furnished ones.”    
  
That reminds her:   
  
“Where is all my stuff?”   
  
Zakaar points at a locker in the corner. Then at a door next to it:   
  
“The lavatory is over there. I have also brought you some naxa to eat.”    
  
She is just about to ask what that is when Zakaar hands her a plate with what looks like dragonfruit if dragonfruit was purple and orange:   
  
“Eat. It’s too sweet for my liking but oomans like sugar, do they not?”    
  
“Not all… oomans.” Nora smiles, realizing she is fairly hungry.    
  
“And you?”    
  
“I am just hungry now.”    
  
She takes a bite of the fruit. It is crunchy and very juicy, like a peach almost, but at the same time sweet and tangy, reminding her of many fruits and none at all at the same time. Despite all the juice, the fruit is chewy and textured and she thinks this might mean that it will be very filling.    
  
“It’s good.” She remarks.    
  
“So, what do we do now?”    
  
“Do you want to rest more?” Zakaar asks, his golden eyes studying her intently.    
  
“How long was I asleep?”   
  
“About the duration of your optimal sleep cycle.”    
  
“I feel fairly rested.”   
  
He looks pleased with this information:   
  
“In that case, I think we could use the time until morning for your education. You will be living here now, and there is a great deal that I have to explain.”    
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for a long time between updates and doubly sorry that this is nearly 5500 words of hardly anything going on, but the next chapter should make up for that, I have just probably underestimated exactly how much exposition I would have to do for this fic, but I was having fun doing it! 
> 
> Making up Yautja names is hard (names are generally the bane of my existence), but I had fun and some names are misspelled existing names/words/phrases (D’thro-iht, I so love that spelling dhasjdhakjdha) and I hope you enjoy this, and I would greatly appreciate it if anyone who was very familiar with Xenomorphs (as in anatomy or tendencies, specifically) could reach out to me, willing to answer some questions down the line, I am much more familiar with the Predator franchise than I am with Alien.

“So, there is the Captain, but there are also Elders, who are higher-ranked than the Captain?”    
  
Zakaar thinks that he will have to get Nora a wrist console as fast as possible because her using a small object with more of those white sheets he saw in her nest and a small stick that leaves traces on it is loud and impractical, with how slow she is with it and how she rustles the sheets back and forth searching for information.    
  
“Correct. The ship Captain is the executive authority on the clanship, but there are matters where he either must consult the Elders, or simply feels like it is wise to.”    
  
“Such as?”    
  
“Bad Bloods, for instance. Those are traitors of the clan, fugitives which we usually execute as soon as we find them.”    
  
“What makes one a Bad Blood exactly?”    
  
“Killing one of their own dishonorably. Colluding with other clans or races. Breaking the rule of the hunt, breaking the rule of discretion, breaking the rule of mating… many things. It is not the same in all clans, either. In our clan, for instance, deliberately harming or killing pups might also make one a Bad Blood.”    
Nora nods, adding more squiggly lines on her sheet:   
  
“Sounds easy enough to understand. Okay, so what are other ranks and how to recognize them?”    
  
“The Captain is easy to recognize because the tips of his tresses are what you call red. He also wears a special uniform, but you will learn to distinguish those in time. There are also  _ sain’ja _ , warriors, with two subcategories. You have Young Bloods, those are the ones who successfully completed their first real hunt. They are lower-ranked.”    
  
Nora’s eyes narrow and she grimaces in what Zakaar smells is discomfort:   
  
“What do they hunt?”    
  
“Not always your kind.”    
  
Nora makes her lips look like a thin white line and silently writes more before she looks up at him again:   
  
“And the other category?”    
  
“Bloodied warriors. Those who have successfully killed their first Hard Meat.”    
  
Nora looks confused for a moment and Zakaar explains:   
  
“The  _ kainde amedha,  _ like the images you have in your nest.”    
  
“Home.” she corrects, writing that part down, too:   
  
“So, you’re Bloodied?”    
  
“Yes. Several times over. But the first time, we are obligated to use some of their blood to draw the symbol of our clan on our forehead or the side of our face. Look for that to recognize Bloodied warriors. Also, the better quality the equipment of a Yautja is, the higher their rank. Some Yautja also decorate their tresses or wear necklaces with little tokens from their hunts. Additionally, after a Bloodied warrior kills their first  _ kainde amedha  _ Queen, they become an Elite. Our Captain is one of the most accomplished Elites of the home planet.”    
  
“Do only males hunt? How to recognize females? What are other jobs a Yautja might have?”    
  
Zakaar has no problem answering all these rapid-fire questions. He is glad his mate is so curious:   
  
“Not only males, but they’re the majority. Females most often raise pups and serve as diplomats, Elders, medics, or educators.”    
  
“Females are Elders?”   
  
“Again, not exclusively. Out here, far from Yautja Prime, there are several, but not many. They usually serve as Elders back home, or go on diplomatic missions instead of hostile ones.”    
  
He can smell a pungent, uncomfortable smell from Nora:   
  
“Glad to see gender roles are firmly in place all across the universe.”    
  
Her scent and expression, as much as Zakaar so far knows about her face, contradict her words and he thrills in confusion:   
  
“You say you are glad, but you don’t look it.”    
  
“It’s called sarcasm. It means exactly that, I say one thing, but deliberately make it clear I mean the opposite.”    
  
“What is the purpose of this communication tool? It sounds pointless.”    
  
“Usually, it is used for comedic effect or to emphasize how disagreeable or unwise something is.”    
  
Zakaar puts this into his wrist console, wondering whether his bearer knows about this and if she doesn’t, whether it would help her in her research to know this.    
  
Most other Yautja would bristle when told something they said was unwise, to say the least, but he just narrows his eyes:   
  
“Why do you think what I said is unwise?”    
  
Nora does something strange with her irises, they briefly disappear and her eyes are white before they appear again:    
  
“Gender roles, Zakaar, come on! This is really prevalent in human society, even nowadays, many men believe women are only good to bear and raise children and do only some caregiving jobs or something.”    
  
Zakaar starts laughing at that and Nora’s eyes and mouth both widen comically:   
  
“ _ Only good for?  _ That duty is the most honorable and demanding one! Were it not for female Elders and bearers, a Yautja would not have grown into a strong one, able to bring honor to themselves and the clan! Why are ooman females not satisfied with that?”    
  
Nora places her small stick on top of the white set of sheets, sighing deeply and suppressing a small cough at how the air still feels too hot:    
  
“Because they might not want to have children, they might want to do something else. Or even if they do want children, they might not want the fact that they’re mothers be their entire personality, or the child-rearing to be only their responsibility. But in our society, it is still frowned upon to say that, most of the time, people think there must be something wrong with a woman if she doesn’t want children. People even pity them, especially if they are biologically unable to have them, for instance. They don’t do the same thing for men, nobody judges or pities a childless man.”    
  
Zakaar nods, now thinking that he understands what the problem is:   
  
“Nobody here judges pupless females because they’re pupless. The main thing here is to contribute to society. So if you don’t have pups, you hunt, or you are a doctor, or engineer, or a diplomat. Females are free to choose whatever path they wish, just how males are, but that path must be productive to the clan as a whole. Most females do not choose to hunt, because they do not need the trophies and the hunting honor in order to be respected or attract a mate. We value their wisdom, and of course, their ability to bear pups. It is essential.”   
  
Nora’s eyes narrow in what Zakaar has learned to recognize as disapproval before he continues:   
  
“Yautja rely on the quantity of the population initially. We are a society of hunters, and hunts are dangerous, meaning many Yautja die hunting even before they become Bloodied. If we didn’t reproduce as much as we do, we would go extinct.”    
  
Nora seems to think about this, chewing on her lip and Zakaar is briefly very interested in the fact that this act doesn’t draw blood. Blunt teeth indeed.    
  
“So… I would presume that this means that you don’t have marriage?”    
  
“Marriage?”    
  
“Monogamous unities.”    
  
Zakaar nods:    
  
“True, mostly, we do not. A Yautja might take on a life mate when they’re old when their fragility warrants it.”    
  
Nora’s face does something weird, her eyes misting with moisture and she swallows on nothing:   
  
“But you are not old or fragile?”    
  
Zakaar’s chest puffs with pride:   
  
“Of course I am not! Do I look it?”    
  
She shakes her head vigorously, the moisture in her eyes now threatening to spill over:   
  
“So… you… what will happen to me with all your other… females?”    
  
Zakaar is surprised by this:   
  
“I do not have any other females.”    
  
“Or your children?”    
  
“I have never sired pups.”    
  
“But, you just said that your kind is not monogamous.”    
  
Zakaar chuckles, still not fully understanding why she looks so hurt:   
  
“I said mostly. Mostly, we are not. Some choose to be. Even if they’re young.”    
  
“So, you… do you intend to be monogamous with me?”    
  
It’s like a light suddenly flares up in his brain and Zakaar realizes he’s dumb. Of course! Oomans need the security of an exclusive union! His mate was probably jealous thinking of him being with others! Despite himself, that realization brings him pleasure:   
  
“Yes, I am taking you as my life mate. We have the Bond.”    
  
“The what?” Nora blinks away the moisture from her eyes, looking relieved.    
  
“Oomans call that “soulmates”.”    
  
This time around, Nora gives him a half-smile:   
  
“Yautja believe in soulmates?”    
  
Zakaar shakes his head resolutely:   
  
“There is nothing to believe or not. The Bond is real, although exceptionally rare. Even rarer is one between a Yautja and a member of another species.”    
  
“So, what does this bond mean exactly? What does it entail?”    
  
He notices a pleased scent from Nora and it reminds him of the scent Yautja females let out when pleased with a mate candidate, although Nora’s is sweeter, making Zakaar let out a deep breath so as to not give away the first stirrings of arousal:   
  
“It means I can smell the changes in your mood accurately. You can, or will become able to, do the same for me soon enough, even if my sense of smell is stronger than yours. You will not be able to do that with other Yautja. As we spend more time together, we will be able to communicate with fewer or no words, too. And your presence will forever affect me in a special way, as will mine you.”    
  
Nora is now smiling and nodding:   
  
“Yes, that sounds like soulmates, except the whole smell thing, or maybe we have that, too, but it’s not as strong or not on a conscious level.”    
  
She hums as if she thought of something and sniffs the air, her brows knitting in concentration:   
  
“You always smell very sweet, like honey. Also very heavy, like some musk. The honey gets stronger when you are pleased, and the musk gets stronger when you are not. And your scent rubs off on me, too. It’s impossible to wash off.”    
  
Zakaar’s chest puffs with pride before he frowns minutely:   
  
“Don’t try to wash my scent off. Yours is not strong, and it goes away quickly and I wish it would linger longer. Can oomans scent?”    
  
“Can we what?”    
  
“Rub off your scent on others deliberately.”    
  
Nora thinks about this:   
  
“I don’t think it’s deliberate, no. Our sweat is smelly. Our… well, I believe the smell of sex also lingers. But we don’t rub against each other with the intent of leaving our scent.”    
  
“Do you find my scent pleasant?”    
  
Nora now giggles, cheeks growing slightly hotter:   
  
“I do. But it’s very, very strong. I’m not used to that.”    
  
She fidgets a little and Zakaar can smell her own slightly aroused scent with how she’s naked and clean before him but her face heats up more and Zakaar is about to ask her about it when she picks up her small stick and taps her sheet with it:   
  
“So, how to recognize female Yautja?”    
  
It might be for the best that she changed the topic. Zakaar was getting further aroused and they haven’t even started her training yet:   
  
“They are typically larger than males and they do have noticeable mammaries, just how ooman females do. Their tusks are also usually smaller.”    
Nora scribbles on her sheet, nodding:   
  
“Gotcha. Uhm… I have been thinking about something, Zakaar.”    
  
“Yes.”    
  
“You mentioned your doctor friend earlier.”    
  
“Thun’Da, yes.”    
  
“Thun’Da is… male?” 

  
Zakaar is cautiously bothered by this question and he nods. Nora probably picks up on this, raising her palm defensively:   
  
“I am asking because… There are some things I would like to talk to a female doctor about.”    
  
“Such as?”    
  
She fidgets once again, her face still hot:   
  
“Female biological things.”    
  
He now nods:   
  
“Like your female bleeding? Or eventual conception and labor? Why do you want to talk to a female about that? Any doctor knows everything you need.”    
  
Nora’s mouth gapes a little and she scratches at her face, again, leaving no trace on her skin. Blunt claws:   
  
“It’s just… more comfortable to talk to a female about it? Because she might be going through the same things? Besides, if I have to be naked in front of a stranger, I would feel more comfortable around a woman.”    
  
Zakaar shakes his head:   
  
“A doctor is a doctor. I do not particularly like you being naked in front of anyone but me, either, but Thun’Da is my longtime friend. You can trust him. He already adjusted his examination process to be gentle enough for an ooman. And his hands are not cold.”    
  
Nora laughs at this last remark:   
  
“Can Yautja hands even be cold? You feel like a furnace!”    
  
“It is uncommon and as luck would have it, usually happens with doctors!”    
  
He is glad to see Nora laughing again and he pats her head:   
  
“Don’t worry. I will go with you to checkups. However…”   
  
“However?”    
  
Zakaar’s face grows serious and he nods toward her sheets:   
  
“Thun’Da is my friend and he is so far the most aware of your situation. Others might not be, or they might be more ignorant of your species social conduct rules. You will have to learn about conduct here. Once we get that down and you have adjusted to our atmosphere here, we will begin your training. What is the name of the combat style you used on those three ooman males?”    
  
Nora is nodding fervently at everything Zakaar says until her face scrunches uncomfortably:   
  
“I am just a beginner at it. It’s called wing chun kung fu.”    
  
Zakaar nods and starts typing away on his console, projecting some holographic images and Yautjan lettering. He studies those for a few moments, nodding:   
  
“This style focuses on speed and frequency of attacks?”    
  
“I suppose so.”    
  
“It doesn’t seem to utilize much force, and it is very close-range. What is the logic behind it?”    
  
Nora swallows on nothing again, her eyes narrowing:   
  
“Do you already know, but just want to hear what I will say?”    
  
Zakaar thrills in approval and nods, waiting. Nora fidgets again:   
  
“Well, I am just a beginner, and I don’t think I’ve been learning the full, or the proper, version of it, anyway, but I think the point is that a smaller, physically weaker opponent, such as a woman against a man, for instance, can still win because she’s fast and knows the techniques to quickly hit the weakest spots. Like the nose or the middle of the chin or the ears. None of those apply to Yautja, I believe. The throat might, though. The hits we employ are usually straight lines, not circular, and there are not many devastating, high-risk hits. The point is to be too fast to be countered, or to safely find ways to keep attacking if you are countered.”    
  
Zakaar is nodding still:    
  
“Not bad principles, but I will teach you more. However, unarmed combat, although invaluable, should be your last resort when hunting.”    
  
Nora nods at this:   
  
“Which weapons will I be allowed to use, then?”    
  
“I will show you a wide array and train you with them all, but your personal preference and the clearance level you get will determine that.”    
  
“I see.” She appears frightened once again and Zakaar frowns:   
  
“I will equip you with all the skills I can to ensure your survival. I will also be there for your first hunts and we will choose prey challenging to you, not to me. I am not allowed to kill them for you, but I may assist.”    
  
Nora briefly smiles through a shudder:   
  
“Will I have to… take their skulls?”    
  
“Yes, that is your proof of a kill and your trophy. Trophies amass honor. Honor is the currency here. I will teach you how to make sure your trophies are intact and how to take and polish them.”    
  
“That sounds really, really horrible.”    
  
Zakaar is now used to her honesty, although he has to warn her:   
  
“Never say that out loud to any Yautja. Do oomans not take hunting trophies?”    
  
“Not all hunters do. I never liked those who did, either. And we don’t take them from our own kind… We don’t normally hunt to kill our own kind, either.”    
  
“Neither do we, unless they’re Bad Bloods.”    
  
“Do you take their skulls, too?”   
  
“Of course. And we may also take their gear if it’s good. That’s another thing. You may loot your kills. Just be careful if we ever hunt Bad Bloods. Their gear sometimes has insignia on it that will get you in danger if displayed on your person.”    
  
“I feel like I am learning a lot in a very short amount of time. I will need to revise my notes.”    
  
“Ah, right. I will get the ship engineer to make you a console like mine once the Captain approves it. That will make it much easier for you to handle data.”    
  
Nora hums to herself, nodding:   
“You are very kind, Zakaar.”    
  
“You are my mate. I want you to be happy.”    
  
“Will other Yautja be hostile to me?”    
  
“Never unprovoked. That is why I will teach you the rules of conduct, so you do not accidentally offend one. As for… friendship, that might be hard until you amass honor. Other Yautja will not harm you but they will not be your friends until you prove yourself, either.”    
  
Nora chews on her lip, making herself smaller by pulling her arms and legs closer to her body. Zakaar is mildly unnerved by this habit.    
  
“I want friends. Guess I’ll have to… amass honor, then.”    
  


* * *

  
  
Zakaar lets Nora put on something she calls a tracksuit over her netting and they go to the medical bay together the following morning. He has warned her not to make eye contact with anyone along the way and she has said that accomplishing that shouldn’t be difficult because her eye-level would mostly be at a typical Yautja’s chest or neck, anyway.    
  
Still, she mostly looks at her feet the entire way.    
Zakaar is matching his speed to hers and he acknowledges that she is trying to walk fast, and he appreciates her not stalling, although the smell of her nervousness is apparent. She tenses every time she hears another Yautja approaching and she resists looking up when she feels their gazes on her. Zakaar doesn’t like how her head remains bent in this meek, submissive posture and he tries to tell himself how that will not last forever.    
  
Three Young Bloods round the corner and are walking toward them. These three are Zakaar’s age and less accomplished, meaning he has already decided that their opinions do not matter, but he knows Nora won’t feel the same way, especially judging by how she swallows when she hears them snickering.    
  
“So, it is true. An ooman on the clanship.” remarks the ugliest of them. Zakaar never bothered learning their names, so he mentally calls them The Short One, The Ugly One, and The Ugliest One.    
The Ugliest One used to be The Green One, but one encounter with particularly clever prey a few cycles ago left his right cheek with a large gash and that mandible tuskless, so now he has a new nickname.    
  
Nora stops at his words and Zakaar doesn’t want to drag her, so he stops as well, even though he knows he shouldn’t give him any importance.    
  
“What of it, Young Blood?” He snarls instead, knowing that reminding him of his rank should be enough for him to back off.    
The Short One answers instead:   
  
“The Captain announced as much, and we were curious to see what kind of a magnificent ooman has earned themselves that honor.”    
  
The remark is delivered in a mocking tone and Zakaar remembers Nora’s sarcasm. It makes him irritated:    
  
“Your curiosity is now sated. Better head to the  _ kehrite  _ and train for your Blooding, lest you want the ooman to get there before you do.”    
  
All three of them blink at this, mandibles flaring slightly, although they hold their tongues. They know better than to disrespect a Bloodied  _ sain’ja,  _ no matter how bruised their egos are.    
  
He is more than a little surprised when he hears Nora speak:   
  
“My name is Nora. Nice to meet you, hunters. Thank you for your hospitality.”    
  
Zakaar is not only surprised that she spoke, but also by how she spoke. He’s never heard her voice like this before. It is stronger, a little deeper, almost hoarse, but definitely well-projected. She stands with her feet at shoulder width, body straight but head bent and her right hand is a fist, connected with her open left palm, her arms stretching barely outward.    
  
Anyone would recognize that as a fighter’s greeting. Zakaar is happy it’s not a bow.    
  
The three Young Bloods seem shocked for a moment, looking at her and then at Zakaar and he just thrills smugly, crossing his arms over his chest, as if daring them to not respond.   
A vast majority of Yautja views humans as barely more intelligent than animals, but Zakaar suspects the Captain mentioned his intentions with Nora in his announcement. So, no matter how offended by her presence they are, they know to not openly disrespect her for Zakaar’s sake.    
  
So, they, begrudgingly, pat their chests with their fists two times, one of the universal Yautja greetings, semi-informal, and nod their heads sharply:    
  
“Work hard, ooman.” Says The Ugly One. Zakaar snarls:    
  
“Your names.”    
  
They glare at him, if only for a moment, before The Ugly One, being the smartest, apparently, complies:   
  
“Bekh’Gatan.”    
  
The Short One follows:   
  
“Thraiyuu.”    
  
The Ugliest One’s three mandibles quiver for just a moment:   
  
“Teshko’Yue.”    
  
Zakaar lets his gauntlet pick up on that. Maybe now he will finally memorize it. Nora appears happy, although she carefully does not smile with her mouth open:   
  
“I wish you a good day.”    
  
She moves a foot forward, signifying to Zakaar that they should go. She knows she cannot turn her back on the higher-ranked, but Zakaar is more than entitled to, so he does, softly grinning to himself at how he hears their steps louder in irritation as they go their way. He waits until they’re far enough:   
  
“I didn’t expect you to do that.”   
  
Nora looks up at him, eyes large:   
  
“Have I made a mistake?”   
  
He thrills amusedly:   
  
“No, that was good. But what was that voice?”    
  
She sighs in relief, coughing at the air and quickly attaching her mask to help her breathe as she tries to laugh:   
  
“Oh, that was my Babe Ruthless voice. My confident voice.”    
  
“Who is this Babe Ruthless?”    
  
“It is a character. I will tell you about her later.”    
  
Zakaar doesn’t have more time to think about this as they’ve arrived at the medical bay and he can hear Thun’Da grumbling to himself even through the door.    
He enters, noticing how Nora is stalking behind him, hiding, only to flinch when Thun’Da slams his fist on the console of his computer station:   
  
“Blaze you with a hundred  _ sivk'va-tais,  _ you  _ pauk’de  _ piece of scrap metal!”    
  
“Having trouble with your computer again, Thun’Da?” Zakaar resists the urge to laugh, extending his hand back to touch Nora’s arm reassuringly. This is just typical Thun’Da, no need to be afraid.   
  
“Again would imply that it stopped at some point! I swear on my  _ yin’tekai _ , Zakaar, the medical bay’s equipment will either get updated, or I will quit and become a hunter like you!”    
  
“That would be an amusing sight to see.  _ Naxa  _ is a truly formidable prey.” Zakaar retorts, aware that Nora is peeking from behind him, trying to take a look at the disgruntled doctor.   
She then chuckles and that attracts his attention. He doesn’t need to ask her why she’s laughing because she whispers, thinking that only he will able to hear:   
  
“That was sarcasm.”    
  
Thun’Da snorts at both the remark and the attempt at being covert:   
  
“Step from behind him, ooman, you couldn’t stick out more if you tried.”    
  
Nora reluctantly does as told, probably thinking that it would be unwise to upset someone who will be pricking her with needles very shortly.    
  
“My name is Nora.” She once again states in that Ruthless voice and Zakaar is looking at Thun’Da, who snorts again, abandoning his task of beating up his computer:    
  
“I know. And my name is Thun’Da. Disrobe and get on the table.”    
  
Nora looks uncomfortable, face heating up, obvious even through her mask, but she slowly opens the top of her tracksuit, looking around for where to put the discarded garment and Zakaar nods at a nearby chair. She removes her pants, too, remaining in her sandals and thermal netting.    
  
“Everything.” Thun’Da grumbles and Nora’s hands fly to the mask:   
  
“Even the mask?”    
  
“Are you short of breath?”    
  
“Uhhh. yes.”   
  
“Don’t lie, I know you’re not. Everything.”    
  
Zakaar looks at his feet so as to not laugh, but he can feel waves of embarrassment and irritation wafting off of Nora, only getting stronger when she, completely bare, tries to climb the examination table that Thun’Da, probably deliberately, set even higher than normal. She grasps the edge of it with her little hands and tries to pull her entire body that way. Zakaar doesn’t want to go up there and help her, that will only humiliate her. She grunts something fierce but manages her second time around, gasping as she ungraciously hikes a leg up and Zakaar quickly averts his eyes when that reveals both her holes to him.  _ Pauk,  _ her slit is so warm, rivaling her face. He swallows, noticing that Thun’Da noticed his predicament, with how Zakaar is standing directly behind Nora.    
  
She ends up sprawled on the table, catching her breath for a few moments before rearranging herself to lay on it properly on her back, already sweating without her netting, her chest heaving.    
  
“This was the most humiliating thing I ever had to do.” She grumbles, still gasping.    
  
“Wouldn’t be if you were in any semblance of shape.” Thun’Da replies and Nora screws her eyes shut so as to not glare at him:   
  
“I don’t mean that. I mean being naked doing this.”    
  
“Nothing humiliating about that. The struggle, however…”    
  
Zakaar thrills quietly in warning, which Thun’Da ignores:   
  
“You will not survive a day among Yautja like that. Provided your test results now are satisfactory, you must start training immediately.”    
  
He sprays the medical shield gel on his hands and approaches her, Nora still keeping her eyes shut, flinching when his fingers feel at her carotid on both sides.    
  
“Don’t squirm, I am checking your pulse.”    
  
“I have wrists, too, you know!”    
  
“Are you a doctor?”    
  
“...No.”   
  
“Then do not teach me how to do my job! It’s inconvenient enough that I am examining a whole other species. I could do without your blabbering.”    
  
Zakaar’s abdomen is aching with how he’s trying to not laugh:   
  
“I feel the two of you might be more similar than you realize.”    
  
Nora’s head whips to the side so she can look at him, causing Thun’Da to nearly slice her artery open with a claw:   
  
“ _ S'yuit-de ooman!  _ Are you trying to kill us both?!”    
  
He gives neither of them a chance to respond, glaring at Zakaar now:   
  
“How am I similar to an ooman?!”    
  
Zakaar frowns at him now, his hand instinctively having gone to his hip:   
  
“Clearly in the careless department. I am warning you, Thun’Da.”    
  
The other Yautja growls, looking back at Nora:   
  
“Do not move unless I tell you to, and exactly how I tell you to! You are  _ pyode  _ and a wrong move can get you killed. Do you understand?”    
  
Nora is trembling now and Zakaar lets some pheromones to comfort her as she nods. Thun’Da continues his examination, flashing a light into her eyes, telling her to open her mouth so he could check her tongue, taking a swab to both her tongue and nostrils and lifting her arms to check her armpits, for reasons Zakaar cannot decipher.    
He then moves to her feet, checking her soles, her knees, and her muscles:   
  
“She’s doing alright. No adverse reactions to previous treatment and I don’t feel like repeating how overfed and under-trained she is once again.”    
  
“Did he just call me fat?” Nora mumbles and Thun’Da clicks his tongue:   
  
“Silence. Open your legs.”    
  
Nora looks at him in fear before casting a pleading gaze at Zakaar, but Zakaar just nods, hoping she understands that he’s telling her to not worry.    
She gulps and slowly does as told, probably not wanting Thun’Da to do it for her. Good call.    
  
He takes another swab to her slit, and yet another to her anus, and Zakaar clearly hears her sigh in relief when that seems to be everything he needed to do there. She is reeking of fear and shame and Zakaar doesn’t understand why. This is just a normal examination.    
  
He then switches the mode of his mask to X-ray and starts touching her abdomen:    
  
“When are you supposed to start bleeding?”    
  
Nora looks taken aback:    
  
“Are you a gynecologist?”    
  
“Answer the question.” Thun’Da snarls and Nora almost squeaks:   
  
“In 11 or 12 days!”    
  
Thun’Da hums, converting ooman to Yautjan days, before speaking to Zakaar, now checking Nora’s breasts, something which she tries to protest against only for him to swat her interfering hand away:   
  
“Ooman females are sometimes able to bear more than one pup at a time. This one is especially genetically inclined to do as much. You wouldn’t be in the wrong to expect two or three pups from one insemination. This takes a toll on the  _ pyode  _ body, even with an ooman sire, so I would have to keep an eye on her when she becomes with pup.”    
  
Zakaar now feels Nora’s anger:   
  
“I would hope that matters concerning my uterus would be something you would be speaking to me about.”    
  
“I am not hiding it from you. You have ears, do you not?”    
  
“Speak to my mate directly, Thun’Da.” Zakaar reminds him and Thun’Da snorts in frustration:    
  
“Fine. Does your bleeding impair you in any way?”    
  
Nora hesitates:   
  
“Well, it is painful.”    
  
“Is that normal for ooman females? Are you all that weak?”    
  
“No! It’s not a weakness!”    
  
“Is it  _ normal?”  _   
  
“I suppose not.” She grumbles and Thun’Da walks over to his medicine cabinet, preparing several syringes:   
  
“I will inject some nutrition, medicine to strengthen your body, and I will take some blood. Lay still.”    
  
Nora clenches her teeth and nods, hissing at every prick. Thun’Da cleans and seals the wounds with a spray:   
  
“I will now check your ovaries again.”    
  
He switches the vision mode again and feels around her abdomen:   
  
“As I suspected, the cysts were not supposed to be there. When was the last time you visited a doctor?”    
  
“Cysts?” Nora stutters, looking embarrassed again: “Too long ago, it seems. Have you cured me?”    
  
“It seems that way, I did a small readjustment.”    
  
Nora looks at Zakaar in awe:   
  
“He cured it… It is incurable!”    
  
“Those measly cysts are incurable for oomans?!” Thun’Da snorts, walking back to his console to input the blood samples for analysis:   
  
“You may get dressed.”    
  
He hasn’t lowered the table and Nora eyes the floor suspiciously before she tries to slide down as painlessly as possible, hurrying to get dressed as Thun’Da waits for the results:   
  
“Keep your netting on at all times, drink more water than you used to, and try wearing the mask as little as you can. You perspire a lot, but I don’t know if the amount is normal for your kind. Work on speeding up your metabolism, I can see that it used to be faster. You are an ectomorph, but you have ruined your body. It is not irreversible. Shorten your sleep cycle by a tenth and do not be alarmed if you feel excessive fatigue in the following few cycles. If it lasts for more than three, or if you get any adverse symptoms, like skin alterations, painful waste excretion, eye problems, or anything else, come see me immediately.”    
  
Nora looks scared by everything he names and Zakaar takes it upon himself to help her:   
  
“Those might happen during your adaptation period.”    
  
She nods, sheepish until she finishes dressing:   
  
“Have you treated a human before?”    
  
“I don’t see how that matters. Your anatomy is not that complex.”    
  
“So, that’s a no.” Her mouth tightens and Thun’Da huffs in annoyance, before reviewing the blood test results. He then gets very contemplative and Zakaar is immediately interested:   
  
“What is it?”    
  
Thun’Da shakes his head:   
  
“I will need to study this more, but this ooman may not be as uninteresting as I initially thought.”    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How cool would it be if Thun'Da could just cure PCOS worldwide?   
> Wish fulfillment right there, folks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, it again took me a while to update, I am sorry, but I hope the thing this chapter is leading to is worth it ^^ ^^ ^^ 
> 
> Also, while I do understand that the concept of dating, relationships, or even marriage, doesn't necessarily mean people are having sex, for various reasons (ofc this is not the only one, but shoutout to all our dear aces out there!), Nora is for now only explaining the simplest or most common concepts to Zakaar, or the things that apply to her individually or to them as a couple. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter! Thank you for your support and patience <3

Since Thun’Da refused to share his hypotheses until he researched further and confirmed them, Zakaar and Nora have no choice but to leave the medical bay and she tries to hide her worries.   
  
“Some training will help your mood.”    
  
Nora looks up at him, gulping:   
  
“Do you promise to go easy on me? I mean, you’re infinitely stronger.”    
  
“I promise not to harm you.” 

  
They get to the  _ kehrites _ , Zakaar choosing an available room, letting the lock read his handprint, and leads Nora inside.   
She looks around, taking the huge room in. It is nothing one might not expect from a training hall, large, clean, with weapons and equipment lining one part of the wall and a computer console next to it.    
  
“This is one of the smallest rooms,” Zakaar explains, pointing a sharp claw at the console:   
  
“That is the simulation system, but we won’t be using it today. Today, we’re going to assess your current state and get you familiarized with these weapons.”    
  
Nora is already nervous, so she chooses to distract both of them from it:   
  
“What do you mean, simulation system?”    
  
“It can accurately simulate various environments, down to the atmosphere. There are many preset training grounds. It is the closest thing you can get to hunting without actually hunting. Very useful for long periods spent on the clanship. Come here.”    
  
Nora approaches him and he gestures at the wall lined with weapons:   
  
“Does anything here catch your interest?”    
  
Nora doesn’t have weapon practice. She’s stayed around to watch the more experienced group of students at her former dojo practice and she enjoyed it, but her instructor refused to teach her just yet, saying she still needs to learn the basics of bare hand fighting better. Fair enough, she thought. So now, she points at a long stick with a blade on it:   
  
“You use the naginata?”    
  
Zakaar chuckles:   
“It is the queen of blades. Is that what interests you?”    
  
Nora shakes her head because the weapon looks huge, heavy, and intimidating:   
  
“No, I just recognized that one. Other things seem more unusual. What is this, you also have this weapon?”    
  
She points at a short metal stick, about the length of Zakaar’s forearm, that she remembers having seen hanging from his belt before. He thrills happily:   
  
“That is the combistick. A trusted staple. It extends into a spear or lance, or you can use it as a staff, even similarly to a halberd, or even a harpoon.”    
  
Nora looks shocked:   
  
“It serves as all that?”   
  
He laughs, taking the combistick off the wall and stepping back to demonstrate:   
  
“Observe.”    
  
He lets the stick extend on one end, holding it one-handed, then lets the blades appear at one side of the tip:   
  
“This would be similar to a hatchet.”    
  
He extends the other end:   
  
“Halberd.”    
  
He lets the blades on the other end out:   
  
“Double bladed staff.”    
  
He retracts both blades:   
  
“Regular staff.”    
  
Sets up a different pattern of blades:   
  
“Spear.”    
  
Shortens the back end:   
  
“Javelin.”    
  
Lets out the middle blade and extends the back end again:   
  
“Two-handed sword.”    
  
And finally, retracts the back end:   
  
“One-handed sword.”    
  
Nora stares at the demonstration, mouth gaping:   
  
“And I thought Swiss army knives were versatile. Where do the blades even fit inside?”    
  
“They’re collapsible. The metal this is made of is xerbinium. Very light, but resistant, even to acid. With proper maintenance, this weapon can last many cycles. This one is very old and appropriately dull for training purposes, the real one could shave even your finest tresses. But the balance of this is perfect. Go ahead, take it.”    
  
He retracts all blades and hands Nora the half-stick. She is hesitant to accept it:   
  
“Won’t I accidentally extend the blades?”    
  
“I locked them in just now. Come on.”    
  
She is reassured by this and takes the stick:    
  
“It’s heavy, but not as heavy as I thought it would be.”    
  
Zakaar grabs another combistick and sets it to the same mode hers is in, assuming his fighting stance:   
  
“Attack me. All I am going to do is block. Every time I block, you keep attacking. You keep doing that until I tell you to stop.”    
  
“I have never fought with a weapon, Zakaar.”    
  
“No matter. The point is just for me to assess you. Come on.” 

  
Nora doesn’t even know how to hold the long stick properly. The grips the handle has are clearly too large for her hands and she tries to summon the memory of watching her fellow dojo members practice. She feels embarrassed, not even having properly recovered from that grumpy doctor yet, and already feeling like she is about to make a total idiot of herself.   
  
“Why are you hesitating? Attack!”    
  
She frowns, swinging the stick and feeling its weight almost pull her entire body with her. If the soles of her new sandals were slightly more slippery, she would have probably kissed the floor hello. As it is, she manages to keep some of her dignity by staying on her feet and she hears a clang as Zakaar effortlessly blocks her blow:   
  
“Again. If something is not working, do something different.” 

  
What if nothing is working?!    
  
She readjusts her grip, cogs in her brain turning on how she should attack and she remembers how Jason, one of the most advanced students at the dojo, holds his stick. She replicates it.    
This half-stick Zakaar gave her is still a two-handed weapon for her, reaching to her collarbone when she puts it on the floor and she decides to try something, so, holding the stick in front of her with both hands, she guides the right end toward Zakaar before changing courses and trying to hit him with the left.    
  
She thinks her feign is impressive until she realizes he’s blocked it without even looking at it:   
  
“Again.” 

  
Nora huffs defeatedly, not realizing the point of this. Zakaar is faster than her, so much so that she doesn’t even see his hand move properly before her blow is deflected.    
  
She tries thrusting the stick at him, that being the most direct and thus fastest possible attack, but of course, he blocks that, too.    
  
“You’re slow.”    
  
“I’m doing my best, it’s just impossible!”    
  
“You’re not. You’re in this thinking that you stand no chance and for some reason, that is causing you to not give your all. Just because this is practice doesn’t mean you shouldn’t treat it with respect.”    
  
Nora lowers her stick, staring up at him:   
  
“Respect?”    
  
“Yes. I am your opponent now. Respect me by giving me your all, no matter how the odds are stacked. I promised you that I will not fight back, but that doesn’t mean you have nothing to lose.”    
  
Nora is confused and Zakaar’s face softens a little:    
  
“If you fight like this, you lose chances to learn. Every opportunity to train is precious, so we should not waste them. Come on, try again, try in earnest.”    
  
Nora sighs and takes a few steps back, deciding to try charging at him. She imagines this is a real fight and tries to remember how she fought in the alley the night they met. Tooth and nail.    
  
He deflects blows and Nora staggers when the heavy stick almost vibrates in her hands from the force of the impact but she doesn’t give up. She pushes all her knowledge of Zakaar’s strength out of her mind and just keeps hitting and hitting and hitting. His body is large and Nora tries looking at it as a possible disadvantage. She will never be stronger than him, but what if she could be faster?   
  
The sounds of her stick colliding with Zakaar’s limbs echo in the  _ kehrite,  _ along with Nora’s grunts of exertion, but she doesn’t stop, an idea flashing in her mind. Zakaar slaps her stick away with so much momentum, what if she…    
  
Her whole body needs to soak up all that kinetic energy so she might as well use it for a kick.    
And that is how her foot ends up connecting with Zakaar’s abdomen.    
His stomach is rock hard and it hurts, but his approving chuckle makes Nora smile through the pain as she’s struggling for breath, leaning onto the stick for support.   
  
“Well done, my mate! Your technique is incomplete and unpolished, but your instincts are sharp and you have potential. You used the characteristics of your weapon to your advantage!”    
  
Nora huffs and puffs, wheezing as the air begins to bother her and she hastily attaches the mask for some precious oxygen:   
  
“I… that was more exhausting than anything I’ve ever done! And this was my all! Did I hurt you?”    
  
“Of course not, it was but a tap!”    
  
Nora looks up at him through the mask desperately. Of course, she doesn’t genuinely want to hurt Zakaar, but…   
  
“So, no matter how much of myself I give, it will be a harmless tap?”    
  
Zakaar shakes his head, gently taking the stick from her and putting it back on the wall:    
  
“This was your all today, and today it is a tap. That is why we keep training, so your all becomes a deadly force.”    
  
She smiles, even though he cannot see her mouth, and she feels a sweet scent emanating from Zakaar, causing her stomach to do an odd little flip and her crotch to tingle. His mandibles tremble and he thrills, scent growing deeper:    
  
“You’ve never smelled better, my mate.”    
  
Nora is grateful for the mask because her cheeks burn:    
  
“I’m just sweaty.”    
  
“Not just that. You also smell happy. And aroused. A great combination.”    
  
Nora fidgets at his comment, scratching her head:    
  
“And only you can smell that, right?”    
  
“Only I can smell happiness, yes.”    
  
“So, everyone would be able to smell my… my arousal?!”    
  
Zakaar’s brow scrunches:    
  
“Your current clothing doesn’t really protect you from that, this is true. It will be different once you obtain some armor. But, Yautja noses are extremely keen. They will always be able to scent if you’re aroused, or bleeding, or with a pup. Not as readily, but yes. Do you remember I mentioned the code of honor? You need not be afraid.”    
  
Nora gulps and slowly removes the mask:    
  
“That is really, really weird. Can’t I get some… patches, or ointment, or medicine, to prevent that? I don’t want just anyone to know my business like that!”    
  
Zakaar frowns:    
  
“You can, but it is discouraged. For one, it would also work on me, and I would hate not being able to feel you. But, more importantly, all the subtle changes in one’s scent are indicators of physical and mental states that might affect the Hunt, especially for female hunters. Certain prey has noses even sharper than Yautja. So, if the Commander was to be unaware that you’re in the middle of your female bleeding, and send you on a hunt, the prey will find you easily and you will bring danger to yourself and your hunting partners.”    
  
“Well, that makes sense.” Grumbles Nora, once again feeling the embarrassment from the moment she needed to explain to her PE teacher back in 5th grade why she wasn’t able to practice that day.    
  
“Do not worry, all of that is entirely natural. The Yautja accept the natural order of things. There is no shame in it. Come on, let’s practice some more.”    
  
Zakaar shows Nora how to avoid being grappled or get out of grapples if she can’t avoid them and she gets lost in trying to absorb the information he is providing, but more importantly…    
Zakaar is warm, and his sweet, honey scent is growing on her in ways she would have never anticipated that night in the back alley. He is impossibly strong, all hard muscle covered by such interesting skin. Nora finds that she enjoys touching it. It is smoother than that of humans in some areas, in other, it feels almost dry with how leathery textured it is. Her fingers cannot draw lines as long as she would like, with how they get caught up in his netting, and she really wants to touch his dreadlocks to see if they’re as rubbery as they appear. She tries to focus, she really does, but when Zakaar wraps an arm around her neck to demonstrate a technique, she feels that treacherous clench of her pussy again. His arm is so large and thick that it feels like she is being enveloped by a tree trunk, and for some reason, that feels so good.   
  
“You’re really testing my self-control, mate.” Zakaar thrills into her hair, hot breath fanning some tresses.    
  
Nora’s face burns as she gulps, hands coming to Zakaar’s arm on her neck. Her hands are tiny compared to any part of him and she can’t help but wonder what they would look like on that one certain part of him and Zakaar inhales audibly, the clicking sound from his throat almost menacing.    
  
“What has gotten you this aroused? I bet you’re dripping down your thighs at this point. And your face is glowing so hot it rivals the sun.”    
  
He is teasing her, he’s whispering now, and by gods, is it working. Nora believes that she can’t even formulate a sentence at this point:    
  
“I’m sorry.”    
  
“Never be sorry for wanting me.” Zakaar’s body is now pressed against hers from behind and she feels the hard material of his codpiece and she briefly wishes the damn thing wasn’t there.    
  
“I j-just… you’re very warm and you s-smell so good.” She stutters. She was never this clumsy or shy around men she liked before. But then again, everything about Zakaar is different from any man she ever liked before.    
  
“You too. Especially now. But we must not get carried away, no matter how much I want to just ravage you right here on this floor.”    
  
Another throb of her pussy, another satisfied thrill from Zakaar.    
  
“This is why I wished you weren’t able to smell me. Humans can’t smell each other like this, so if they cannot… get carried away, each of them just ignores their arousal and they keep decorum easily.”    
  
Zakaar’s honey scent is deep and rich, but now it tinges with the pungent musk:    
  
“So, you do not know if a male wants you? And he doesn’t know if you want him?”   
  
Nora thinks about the question, resisting the urge to lean back into Zakaar’s firm body:    
  
“Well, I suppose sometimes, that is the case, yes. If I’m d-dating a man, it by default means we like each other that way, it’s just that we cannot know of every single time one of us gets aroused unless we’re told.”    
  
“Dating?” Zakaar’s thrill now gets pointed.   
  
“Dating means being romantically involved with someone. Most commonly, that means that the couple is exclusive, and dating is what can eventually lead to marriage- a legally binding union, where a couple, and any offspring they will have, become a family. Of course, there are many different types of relationships, and a large majority of them will not lead to marriage. That’s probably because we can never know if we’re compatible unless we spend a lot of time together.”    
  
Zakaar is silent for a while, and his arm eventually slips away from Nora as he steps back and she turns around to face him, almost whining at the loss of his warmth. His mandibles seem stiff as he assumes his stance again:    
  
“Let’s keep practicing.”    
  
  


* * *

  
  
Nora’s physical exhaustion after the training is unlike any she had felt before, and she is beyond happy when Zakaar shows her a cabin that she just enters naked, and rays of blue light clean her body in seconds. She would kill for such showers back home.    
  
It is not until they’re back at her cabin that afternoon that she decides to ask him about his sudden change in demeanor when she mentioned dating.    
His entire face is tight and Nora wonders if this is nervousness or embarrassment in Yautja expression:    
  
“I merely wanted to continue training.”    
  
Nora doesn’t buy it for a second:    
  
“Come on, you can be truthful with me. We were basically humping each other before that point. And don’t tell me you wanted to avoid being carried away, I know there’s more to it.”    
  
Zakaar thrills half-heartedly with a sigh and a shake of his large head:   
  
“It seems like I cannot hide anything from you. The concept you mentioned…”   
  
“Dating.”   
  
“Have you done that with many males?”    
  
Nora decides not to tell him that dating doesn’t necessarily have to be between people of opposite sexes. That doesn’t apply to her past, anyway, and it would just confuse him.    
“Wait, are you asking me if I’ve had sex before?”    
  
If she wasn’t sure whether Zakaar was embarrassed earlier, now he certainly seems that way:    
  
“Yes.”    
  
“Why?”    
  
His mandibles tremble for a moment:    
  
“The Yautja usually only have sex when they mate. And I have no pups.”    
  
It dawns on her:    
  
“Oh! So, you’ve never had sex before?”    
  
He nods, frowning:    
  
“But, if oomans have sex purely for enjoyment, that would mean one can have lots of it when they date others?”    
  
“Well, yes. Not necessarily, but in theory, yes. I… I feel uncomfortable being asked about my sexual history because men usually ask that to gauge whether I am worthy of respect.”    
  
Zakaar’s head tilts in confusion and Nora sighs:   
  
“In human societies, well, I don’t know if it applies to all of them, but mostly, if a woman has had many sexual partners, she is considered less worthy of respect. This doesn’t apply to males. There is this one disgusting saying that a key that opens many locks is a great key, but a lock that can get opened by many keys is a crappy lock. And mind you, what qualifies as “a lot” is entirely subjective. Some men consider even 1 partner before them to be a lot.”    
  
Zakaar seems conflicted as he briefly looks down:    
  
“The number of sexual partners is not something we pay attention to in our culture. If anything, having many is encouraged, for both males and females.”    
  
“Yes, the need for procreation and non-monogamy work like that. But for humans, most of us are monogamous. You would think that would mean that a large number of partners would be something that is discouraged for both men and women, but humans are great at double standards and misogyny.”    
  
“That sounds dishonorable.”    
  
“I agree. But, Zakaar, if that is not what is bothering you, then what is?”    
Zakaar sighs once again, tugging some of his dreadlocks back and Nora thinks he looks almost unbearably cute.    
  
“If oomans have sex for enjoyment, that means they can have lots of it. And doing anything many times will inevitably make one better at it. If ooman males are encouraged to have lots of it, you’re probably used to being with the ones who are very good at it and can bring you lots of pleasure.” 

  
Nora snorts in amusement and Zakaar looks up at her with an offended expression.    
But she can’t help it, this is such  _ human  _ insecurity.    
  
“Do you fear I won’t be pleased with you?”    
  
“Yautja do not fear anything!”    
  
“Alright, then, you are concerned, okay. But, Zakaar, aren’t we soulmates?” 

  
He seems confused for a moment and Nora grins smugly:   
  
“From what I know about soulmates, they are perfect for one another in every way. That would mean I would never know a greater pleasure than the one you can give me. And vice versa. No matter if I had 0 partners or a million, nobody would ever be able to make me as happy as you. Although I do hope you do not expect me to only have sex with you when we’re making a baby. I can’t agree with that.”    
  
The way Zakaar suddenly smells sweeter than he ever has almost made Nora dizzy as he pulls her into his lap, his vibrant eyes boring into hers, mandibles twitching in what she learned to recognize as happiness by now, even if he wasn’t purring, which he is. His large hands easily completely envelop her waist as he gently nuzzles his forehead against hers:    
  
“I would be happy to give you pleasure whenever you desire.”    
  
Nora giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck:    
  
“May I touch your dreadlocks? Tresses.”    
  
She corrects herself and Zakaar is still looking at her intently as he nods:    
  
“They’re sensitive.”    
  
“I’ll be gentle.”    
  
  
She realizes that is not what he meant as soon as she runs her fingers against one and he gasps. Just as she thought, the tress is smooth and almost rubbery, resembling a more bouncy cable and she wraps her fingers around one and strokes downward, Zakaar closing his eyes and letting out a small thrill.    
  
“You like that?”    
  
“It makes me want to take you.”    
  
“Would you like me to stop, then?”    
  
“It would be wise.”    
  
She lets go of the tress but Zakaar shakes his head:    
  
“I didn’t say I wanted you to stop.” 

  
She giggles, caressing his odd hair again:    
  
“So, these are not actual hair?”    
  
“What do you mean?”    
  
“My tresses, while I would feel it in my scalp if you tugged, are not “alive” per se. You could cut them off and it would bring me no pain, I wouldn’t feel anything. In fact, they constantly grow so I do cut them regularly. The same goes for my nails.”    
  
“Our nails are the same, but these tresses do not grow past a certain point when one is a pup. They would bleed if cut and they would never grow back.”    
  
“Is there a bone in them?”    
  
“No. They aid our hearing and sense of direction. But they are not like a tail, in the sense that I cannot control how they move.”    
  
“I see.” Nora is still toying with the tresses, stroking, bending them ever so slightly, and running her fingers through them:    
  
“They also seem to get you aroused when touched.”    
  
“Yes. That is why only a mate may touch them. What about your tresses?”   
  
He gently runs his fingers through her hair and Nora smiles at him:   
  
“It arouses me when they are tugged. Not too hard, mind you, and you would need to grab a handful. The closer to the scalp, the better. The rule for touching them is not quite as restrictive, because the feeling is so limited, but yes, not just anyone can touch a human’s hair.”    
  
Zakaar is still purring as he tries to not buck into Nora and hurt her with the codpiece he is still wearing:    
  
“Then I am happy I can touch yours.”    
  
Nora kisses his forehead, feeling the texture of his skin against her lips, and Zakaar thrills in delight:   
  
“You gave me a kiss.”    
  
“Yes. I have been thinking about our kisses.”    
  
His body stiffens in anticipation:    
  
“What of them?” 

  
“Well, obviously, we cannot do them the way two humans do, but what if I kissed your mandibles?”    
  
“You could do that.” Zakaar concedes and stills his mandibles for her to try.    
  
“I will just kiss the outer area and you tell me if it tickles, okay?”    
  
He nods and she lays a gentle kiss on his upper right mandible. His scent grows sweeter and he nods again, large hands stroking her back. Nora repeats the kiss on the opposite side, mindful of the big tusks Zakaar is sporting. The skin of his mandibles feels odd, very elastic, almost like the skin…    
  
“May I kiss your tress?”    
  
He nods again and Nora carefully takes one between her fingers, brushing her lips against it. Zakaar is still purring, only for the noise to briefly get stuck in his throat when she wraps her lips around the tip of his dreadlock and suckles.    
  
“Hnnng!”    
  
Nora pulls back, startled:   
  
“Did that hurt?!”    
  
He gasps, shaking his head, the honey scent heady:   
  
“Do it again.”    
  
Nora giggles and obliges him, this time taking just a bit more and sliding her mouth downward as if she were sucking on a finger… or cock. The tress is more malleable and softer than both, and she tries not to laugh as she thinks of it as a big meat noodle, but Zakaar’s body is getting hotter as she suckles and when he lets out a heavy sigh, she switches to a different tress, his hands now steadily kneading her behind and when she moans around his dreadlock, he almost snarls in arousal, words coming out strained:   
  
“I think you should stop. I can’t guarantee my self-control would win against your mouth.”    
  
She stops, leaning back to look at him again, grinning:    
  
“I can do that thing with my mouth in other places, as well.”    
  
It takes him a few moments, but when he finally realizes what she means, the hue of his face deepens and Nora realizes that he blushed. His breaths are coming out ragged and he consciously has to stop himself from clawing at her soft buttocks:    
  
“You will be the death of me, will you not, my mate? I cannot do anything until the mating hunt but endure this teasing of yours.”    
  
Nora laughs softly, kissing his forehead again:    
  
“Regarding that… the mating hunt ends in us having penis-in-vagina sex, right?”    
  
Zakaar’s body tenses again as he purrs louder, undoubtedly imagining it:   
  
“If all goes according to plan, yes. That is one of the reasons you must train hard.”    
  
Nora thinks for a moment:    
  
“Well, you know, that is not the only sexual thing a couple can do. Or is any sexual contact forbidden before the mating hunt?”    
  
Zakaar realizes what she means and he hums in thought:    
  
“It is forbidden to claim a female before the hunt. I’ve never heard of a rule regarding mouths.”    
  
“Mouths. Hands. Thighs. Breasts. Sex can be very creative.”    
  
Zakaar is looking at her intently, his mandibles finally quirking in amusement:   
  
“I wouldn’t be much of an example if I missed an opportunity to learn when I have just scolded you to not do so in the  _ kehrite _ .”    
  
Nora is happy he is so brilliant:   
  
“Exactly.”    



End file.
